


sage and lemon

by elizabethgee



Series: mint and ginger [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Graphic descriptions of violence, Harassment, Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Geralt, M/M, Mystery, Praise Kink, Previous Abusive Relationship, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Romance, Sleazebag Raymond, Smut, Violence, a shitty priest, a spoiled prince, grave hag, monster hunting, past jaskier/raymond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-09
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:35:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 21,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25795993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizabethgee/pseuds/elizabethgee
Summary: A continuation of "mint and ginger."The trip to Gots Velen is a bit more complicated than expected when Geralt gets a contract from the prince.It doesn't help that Jaskier's ex is in town...
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: mint and ginger [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1871392
Comments: 54
Kudos: 197





	1. abominations and guards

Geralt doesn’t like Gots Velen. It’s large and crowded, and people openly gawk at him. He’s used to the general suspicion in his presence, but it’s the outright disdainful glares that he receives in large cities that makes him jumpy. Jaskier fits in easily, as expected— his bright, glowing demeanor attracts all kinds of attention (not always positive, as they learned a week previous with the vampire that decided to try and take Jaskier as a snack).

Geralt holds himself close to Roach, hand gripping the reins beneath her jaw and tucking his shoulder next to her withers as they walk through the city in search of lodging. He reaches up and strokes her cheek every once in a while to try and distract himself, and she tilts towards him at the touch of his fingers.

The ghost they were called to the outskirts of the city for was easily dispatched in a day. Geralt was pleased that they could leave quickly, but nearly as soon as the ghost was dispatched he received another summons— this time from the Prince of Gots Velen. So they were venturing into the city to look for lodgings for the evening. Geralt would have been perfectly happy to camp outside of the city limits, but Jaskier had put his foots down.

“We’ve been sleeping outside for several days, Geralt. I’d like a bath,” the bard had pouted. Geralt had given in, enticed by the idea of a bath and a happy, clean Jaskier for him to dirty up again.

“Geralt! It’s perfect,” Jaskier exclaims, pulling Geralt from his thoughts and gesturing to a brightly painted sign along on the cobbled main street.

Geralt grimaces.

“’The Chanting Siren?’”

“Yes,” Jaskier cracks a bright smile, eyes dancing with mirth, “it has singing and monsters in the name. Perfect!”

And he disappears through the bright blue front door. He admits, despite the name, the inn looks nice from the exterior: situated along the main street, with large shiny windows and a brightly painted façade. It’ll probably be expensive, Geralt thinks as he ties Roach up outside, stroking her velvet soft nose as she gives him a reproachful glare and chews at her bit.

“Just for a moment,” he promises, then pulls his hood off as he steps into the inn.

The interior is as garish as the Inn’s name would imply. Thick tapestries line the walls, silver adornments drip from every surface, and the sickly sweet smell of too much lavender makes him curl his lips in disgust. He takes a shallow breath to quell his distaste and moves to stand behind Jaskier as the bard chats with the portly innkeeper.

The man’s eyes flick from Jaskier to Geralt and he immediately puts off the heavy, sour scent of fear.

“Ah! Hello, yes— I’ll be with you in a moment,” the innkeeper says to him, eyes darting to Jaskier.

“Oh. No, he’s with me,” Jaskier smiles at the innkeeper, turning to smile at Geralt and missing the look of horror on the innkeeper’s face.

“Geralt, this is Bradley. He runs the establishment—“

“Geralt? The witcher,” The innkeeper rudely interjects, eyes darting between his eyes and the swords strapped to his back.

Geralt watches a muscle in Jaskier’s jaw tic as he turns back to address the frightened man.

“Yes. We’d like a room, please.”

“One room?”

Bradley can’t seem to compute the idea of Jaskier sleeping in the same room as Geralt, and really, Geralt can’t blame him—

“Yes,” Jaskier repeats, smile fading to a forced grin.

Geralt can see Bradley’s mind turning, trying to find a way out of hosting a witcher and tarnishing his establishment’s reputation.

Jaskier holds up his lute and strums a few pleasing chords.

“You allow bards, yes?”

The innkeeper is swayed by the promise of extra patrons that come with a bard’s performance and reluctantly gives them a room. He tries to speak only to Jaskier, asking him again if he’s sure he’d like only the one room. _One bed_ , he emphasizes, as though Jaskier doesn’t realize he’s signing up to sleep in the same bed as a monster hunter.

By the time they actually make it to their room— airy and warm and bright; things Jaskier would normally immediately compliment— the bard is fuming.

His silence speaks to how angry he is as he drops his bag by the dresser and crosses his arms, staring out into space.

Geralt drops his pack and wraps his arms around Jaskier’s waist, pulling him back against Geralt’s chest. He buries his face against Jaskier’s soft hair and inhales deeply, trying to get the terrible rotting smell of lavender out of his sinuses.

Jaskier’s shoulders drop and he twists around to face the witcher, wrapping his arms around Geralt’s broad shoulders over his armor. Geralt runs his hands along Jaskier’s back, pleased by the feel of Jaskier’s heat through his doublet, and Geralt feels his eyelids droop. He has to clear his throat and step back lest he’s tempted into leading Jaskier to the bed and they lose the afternoon tangled together in the sheets.

\---

Their meeting with the prince isn’t for several hours, so Jaskier insists that they venture out to explore the city. He would prefer not to, but Jaskier looks so excited that he can’t refuse. He settles Roach into the inn's stables and they set off.

The crowds bother him: too many scents and emotions and sounds, but Geralt avoids eye contact and focuses on Jaskier to distract himself.

He should have known better than to expect his presence to go unnoticed. They’re walking down a small brick paved side road when Geralt accidentally catches the gaze of a local priest.

_Fuck._

“A witcher! Cursed one! Foul mutant! An abomination against the Gods—“

Jaskier’s shocked eyes twist around, looking for the voice. Geralt’s chest goes tight and he reaches a hand out to stop Jaskier and pull him down the street—

Too late.

“How dare you? You’re a priest here,” Jaskier questions, voice loud and ringing in the narrow street.

“Jaskier—“ Geralt tries, fingers touching Jaskier’s wrist. The priest’s dark eyes immediately track the motion and he snarls, lips pulled back in disgust as his furious eyes dig into Geralt.

“Befouled creature! How dare you touch this innocent boy?”

Geralt reflexively snatches his hand away, stomach curdling and thick shame rising in his chest. Jaskier’s mouth drops open in shock, eyes radiating hurt at Geralt’s flinch.

He turns to the priest, puffing up with rage.

“What is this? He’s a hero! You should be thanking him—“

“Jaskier—“ Geralt tries, eyes tracking all the humans turning to observe the drama.

“Don’t Geralt! This is absurd. A priest, of all people, should not be spreading such disgusting drivel—”

“Innocent,” the priest addresses Jaskier, madness bright in his eyes, “you’ve been bewitched by this mutation! Save yourself while it’s possible—“

Geralt sighs, stepping between Jaskier and the priest and heaving Jaskier up over his shoulder. He’ll get hell for this later, but it’s the only way to get Jaskier away from this before it becomes an outright brawl.

“Geralt! Put me down this instant,” Jaskier yells, hand smacking ineffectively at his armor. Geralt walks them away swiftly, tuning out the raving priest and ducking them into a narrow, abandoned alleyway. He drops Jaskier to his feet and steps back.

“What was that, Geralt? Didn’t you hear what he was saying about you—“

“Yes,” Geralt growls, fisting a hand in Jaskier’s doublet to keep him from running off to start a fight with a priest.

“Yes, I heard him. I hear all of them, all the time. Nothing you say will change their minds,” Geralt snarls.

Jaskier is incensed; angry red has flushed his skin high up on his cheeks, and his eyes are daggers, glaring up at Geralt.

“This is completely ridiculous, why—“

“Stop,” Geralt grits out, chest horribly tight.

Jaskier’s words ring like clear bells through his mind: _“He’s a hero! You should be thanking him—“_

“It’s enough that you don’t think like them,” Geralt manages, throat tight and hot.

Jaskier’s eyes go wide and soft, and Geralt hates being this exposed—

"You don't believe the things he was saying, right? You acted like I'd burned you, when he said—"

“Leave it alone, Jaskier,“ he asks, trying to sound firm but worrying that it just sounds desperate.

The bard presses up on his toes and kisses Geralt in plain view of everyone who passes by the alleyway. His lips are soft and warm, and Geralt presses back automatically, wanting to disappear into the comfort of Jaskier’s touch and his warm, clean smell—

Geralt can tell that there’s a lot Jaskier wants to say, but for once the bard bites his tongue and tries his best to lighten the mood.

Geralt spends the rest of the afternoon feeling distinctly wrong footed. No one defends him. Ever. There’s the occasional grudging acceptance, but Jaskier’s passionate anger in his defense is _different_ , and it’s making him jumpy and uncertain.

When the hour for his meeting with the prince approaches, he mumbles vaguely at Jaskier and disappears, noting the pinched look on Jaskier’s face and trying to figure out what he may have done to put it there.

\---

“A wendigo,” Geralt questions, squinting down his nose at the prince.

“Yes, we’re certain,” Prince Reginald says, pompous, twirling a long, ridiculous peacock feather quill between his fingers.

“What makes you certain,” Geralt asks, feeling his dislike for the prince rise with every word he speaks.

“Well, the people who go missing are always last seen out near the woods. And nothing is ever recovered of their bodies. The have been witnesses who’ve heard howling late at night as well. It’s all very dramatic.”

That’s absolutely nothing like a wendigo. Geralt bites his cheek and waits.

The prince signs a document on his desk without reading it, then waves a ring-laden hand dismissively in Geralt’s direction.

“You will be paid handsomely to get rid of it, of course.”

Geralt recognizes the dismissal and turns to leave, wanting to get away from this spoiled brat before he says something he’ll regret.

King Gregor is apparently too preoccupied with other things to deal with an apparent monster snatching up his citizens, so Geralt is stuck dealing with his son, Prince Reginald. Geralt doesn’t appreciate being foisted off to the king’s son, but the sooner he can figure out what creature is actually snacking on Gots Velen’s citizens, the sooner they can get out of this city.

He’s just reaching for the door—

“Oh. I almost forgot. There’s a dinner party tonight. Your presence would be appreciated.”

Geralt grits his teeth but carefully modulates his voce to sound as polite as possible.

“It would be my pleasure, Prince Reginald,” he says, bowing and making a quick exit before anything else can be said.

Great, just what he needs. A dinner party for royals— more like an excuse for the upper class to gawk at him.

\---

“The Prince probably just wants to publicly show that he’s doing something about their ‘missing people’ problem,” Jaskier says when Geralt shows up in their inn, huffing and grimacing. Jaskier rifles through their clothing, looking for something suitable for Geralt to wear to the prince’s party.

“And what better way to say: ‘I’m dealing with this problem while daddy’s busy,’ than hiring a witcher to kill a monster? What kind of a name is Reginald anyway? Who names their child Reginald?”

“If it is a monster and not humans kidnapping these people. Could be cannibals,” Geralt suggests, running a hand through his hair, fingers catching in a knot.

“What do you think it is,” Jaskier asks, grabbing a brush and gesturing for Geralt to sit at the small desk table in the corner of their room.

“Not enough information to make a decent guess,” Geralt admits, closing his eyes at the soothing feeling of Jaskier’s careful hands taking the tie out of his hair and brushing through the strands.

“Maybe you’ll be able to gather information at the party?”

Geralt’s brows lift in surprise.

“You’re coming with me,” he says. Jaskier hums behind him, and Geralt twists, touching Jaskier’s wrist with soft fingers.

“It’ll be helpful to have you there,” he says, knowing it’s a flimsy excuse. But Jaskier’s eyes go warm and he nods.

“I’ll be able to sing as well, earn some more coin, perhaps.”

\---

It is exceedingly helpful to have Jaskier there for many reasons. He is much better at social niceties, he puts people at ease, and whenever Geralt feels his blood pressure rise he can focus on the bard, breathe slowly, and his blood will calm.

Based on the sparse information he can gather from the people he does manage to speak with, he’s certain that the monster is absolutely not a wendigo. But what exactly the monster is remains unclear as the evening drags on—

Geralt’s gaze sharpens at a sudden movement out of the corner of his eyes. It’s Jaskier, pulling his arm away from a tight grip with a sharp jerk. Geralt strides across the room, not bothering to be inconspicuous, sliding himself between Jaskier and the stranger.

The stranger is tall, with dark hair and striking, sharp features and a shiny coat of armor. But he’s dressed too nicely to be a knight, so he must be one of the castle’s guards. Geralt only scan him before turning his attention to Jaskier.

“Are you okay,” Geralt asks Jaskier, unsettled by the pale look on his face and the thick smell of fear wafting off of him.

“Yes, I’m fine. Just a misunderstanding,” he says, rubbing at his bicep where the man had gripped him.

Geralt turns to stare at the man, daring him to speak, but the stranger just casts one last glance at Jaskier before turning and disappearing into the crowd.

“A jilted husband,” Geralt jokes, but Jaskier gives him a tight smile and shakes his head.

“Something like that,” he mumbles, avoiding Geralt’s gaze.

_Hmm._

“What did you find out,” Jaskier asks, clumsily changing the subject.

“It’s clearly not a wendigo,” Geralt says, “but the people here aren’t very helpful. We should talk with the city’s people tomorrow. They’ll know more than the gossip we’ll get here.”

Jaskier looks around at the crowd and sighs, eyes suddenly looking much older than his years.

“What do you say to heading out fashionably early?”

\---

The cool night air is a relief after the stuffy castle scent— too many anxious people crowded together, vying for a higher spot in the hierarchy of society. It leaves a distasteful heaviness in his guts.

They stroll back to the inn, taking their time now that the streets are mostly empty and they can walk undisturbed.

“We can question the city’s people tomorrow,” Jaskier says, misinterpreting Geralt’s silence for contemplation about the monster. He hums in acknowledgement, but he can’t forget the look on Jaskeir’s face as that guard grabbed him. And the scent of Jaskier’s fear is still in his sinuses, even though Jaskier is no longer scared.

“There’s a cemetery near the location of the missing people,” Geralt adds, trying to follow Jaskier’s lead, “I’ll look into it tomorrow as well.”

The inn is a welcome sight, and as soon as they’re within the privacy of their room, Jaskier turns to him and kisses him, sliding his fingers into Geralt’s belt and tugging him towards the bed.

Geralt goes easily, wanting nothing more than to bury himself in the comfort of Jaskier’s body. When Jaskier’s thighs hit the bed, Geralt stops him and tugs at his doublet, wanting the bard to be undressed _now_.

Jaskier smiles against Geralt’s lips and pulls his clothes off quickly with a mumbled: “you too.”

Geralt rips his ridiculous shirt off and, heat flooding him at the sight of Jaskier’s exposed skin, guides the bard to lie back on the bed. Jaskier smiles up at him, stretching and teasing against the bed, already half hard and breathing shallow. Geralt huffs, swallowing hard.

Jaskier laughs joyfully and sits up, tugging at the ties of Geralt’s pants.

“Get these off too, you big oaf—“

But Geralt is impatient and just pulls himself out of the front of his pants, already hard and on the way to leaking. He lays out on top of Jaskier and grips both of their erections together, reveling in Jaskier's sharp intake of breath and the sudden jolt of his hips.

Geralt noses against Jaskier’s jaw and nips the skin, tugging and massaging their stiffness together between his fist.

Jaskier’s hands grab at the muscle of Geralt’s back, blunt nails dragging along his skin. Pre-cum slicks the way for his hand, and he shifts them to press their lips together, sliding his tongue into Jaskier’s mouth.

Jaskier squirms and pulls back to speak into Geralt’s ear.

“Wanna feel you in me,” he mumbles, familiar blush heating his skin. Geralt tilts his head, pulling back to stare down at the bard.

“You’re still sore, though,” he reminds Jaskier. Jaskier squirms beneath him, avoiding his gaze. Geralt squints at him.

Jaskier had mentioned it the previous day, embarrassment thick in his voice when Geralt had turned him to lay on his belly during one of their sessions camping out in the forest. Geralt could admit to having a mild panic, worried that he’d _hurt_ Jaskier, but Jaskier assured him it wasn’t that— he was just “out of practice.” Jaskier had blushed bright red at the words, but Geralt couldn’t contain the ridiculous pride that filled him and Jaskier had poked him and accused him of being possessive. He _was_ possessive, but he should probably tone it down a bit. Wouldn’t want Jaskier to be put off—

But presently, with Jaskier staring up at him in the dark, Geralt feels a different kind of suspicion fill him. He takes a careful breath and, sure enough, there’s the barest hint of stress beneath the spice of his arousal.

“I am a bit sore still, but I also want to feel you,” Jaskier says, trying to distract Geralt with a hand sliding down his chest.

“I won’t hurt you,” Geralt says, voice steel.

Jaskier twitches, huffing out a breath.

“Yes, I know that. But…what if I want this?”

Red flags wave frantically in Geralt’s mind.

“This is about that guard?”

Jaskier visibly flinches, and Geralt wants to take it back and do whatever Jaskier says, but he senses that there’s something more to this and he will not risk hurting Jaskier, no matter what.

“I don’t want to talk about him,” Jaskier says, and it’s a confession that the man is actually someone Jaskier _knows_ , and Geralt wants to pry and find out more. Why is this stranger having this effect on Jaskier? How do they know each other?

But Geralt remembers how Jaskier protected him earlier— how he let Geralt’s pain go and didn’t pry, and Geralt gives in, pressing soft kisses along Jaskier’s neck and jaw until Jaskier laughs, squirming against him.

“I have another idea,” Geralt says, sliding his hands along Jaskier’s hips and scooting himself down.

Jaskier opens his mouth to protest but Geralt arches an eyebrow and smirks up at him, kneeling between Jaskier’s legs.

He pins Jaskier’s hips to the bed and leans down, pressing his lips to the now leaking head of Jaskier’s erection. Jaskier yelps, hips jolting against Geralt’s hold, and he pins them down harder.

“Stay still,” he growls, pleased by the way Jaskier moans at the command.

Geralt turns his attention to his task, taking Jaskier’s pretty erection in hand and pressing his lips to the head, holding him there, letting his tongue flick out to lap at the slit.

The taste of him is not something Geralt expected to like, but he does. He likes that he can affect Jaskier like this, he likes drinking him down, making him shake and shiver with pleasure—

He slowly takes the head in his mouth, closing his lips around the bard. He holds him there, teasing, until Jaskier whines, hand flailing down to tangle in his long hair.

“Geralt—“

Geralt hums and Jaskier chokes on air, chest heaving. He waits, and sure enough—

“Geralt, _please_ —“

Geralt sucks, setting up a rhythm, pinning Jaskier’s hips hard so he can’t buck up into Geralt’s throat.

Jaskier starts babbling inarticulate words and sounds— begging— and Geralt feels him throb and pulse in his mouth, close to the edge. Geralt’s jaw is starting to ache, and his own hips shift restlessly, dick leaking with the sight and taste of Jaskier beneath him.

“Geralt, I’m gonna—“

Geralt hums, impatient, and Jaskier sucks in a sharp breath, hips jerking as he spills between Geralt’s lips. Geralt chokes a bit, pulling back, cum spilling from his lips. Embarassed, he brings a hand up to rub at his mouth, but Jaskier snags his wrist, twisting them and pinning Geralt down.

“Fuck that is…” his pupils are completely blown and he leans down to lick his own spend from Geralt’s lips, along his chin where the fluid had spilled. It’s Geralt’s turn to shiver, lips hot and swollen, oversensitive as Jaskier slips his tongue into Geralt’s mouth, hand reaching down to wrap around his aching erection.

“That was the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen,” Jaskier mumbles against his mouth. Geralt blushes, ashamed but also ridiculously aroused, Jaskier’s hand jerking him towards orgasm much too quickly.

“Gods, you’re beautiful— choking on my spend, lips bruised and red—“

Geralt groans, turning his face away. Jaskier bites his neck, hard.

“Cum for me, Geralt,” Jaskier’s voice whispers into his ear, hot and warm and inviting.

And he does, hips jerking up against Jaskier’s fist, spilling hot and thick against his own belly. Jaskier hums in approval, sucking bruising kisses into his skin as they collapse onto the mattress.

Geralt floats in the afterglow, grumbling as Jaskier stands to grab a cloth, grumbling _again_ as Jaskier wipes at his mouth first, down his neck, then running the cloth softly across Geralt’s belly. As soon as he's done Geralt tugs him down onto the bed, making Jaskier drop the cloth to the floor.

He pulls them so their limbs are entangled together, falling quickly into sleep.

Tomorrow, he’ll ask Jaskier about the stranger and they’ll figure out this monster business. For now, he breathes in their smell and feels the tension in his chest loosen.


	2. hags and hot water

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a monster is hunted, Geralt learns a bit more about the mystery guard, and Jaskier may or may not take advantage of Geralt's bath time.
> 
> ___
> 
> "He’s used to taking a certain role in the bedroom— it’s expected, he supposes, given his size and status as a witcher. However, as he remembers the previous evening, in bed with Jaskier, something hot and writhing tugs at his guts. His blood rushes at the memory of taking Jaskier down his throat, having Jaskier pin him down…the things Jaskier had said to him…"

Geralt wakes early the next morning, sliding out of bed to Jaskier’s grumbling displeasure and dressing silently. He wants to get an early start, the location where people have been going missing is suspiciously close to an abandoned cemetery, and Geralt wants to verify his hunch as quickly as possible.

As he escapes the city’s perimeter, he finds his mind wandering to the previous day’s events. He knows he can be a bit protective— it’s a trait he became aware of at a very young age, when he’d fight too hard to protect his brothers and Vesemir would scold him harshly. He’s used to reigning in his instincts, aware that people are put off by it, but having someone else exhibit a similar protectiveness in _his_ defense— that’s completely new, and he finds his thoughts jumping back to the memory of Jaskier’s ire. His blue eyes aflame with anger in Geralt’s defense, calling Geralt a ‘hero—’

He balks and shifts his thoughts to a very different moment that is equally puzzling.

He’s used to taking a certain role in the bedroom— it’s expected, he supposes, given his size and status as a witcher. However, as he remembers the previous evening, in bed with Jaskier, something hot and writhing tugs at his guts. His blood rushes at the memory of taking Jaskier down his throat, having Jaskier pin him down…the things Jaskier had said to him…

He sucks in a breath at the spike of arousal and shakes his head. Now’s not the time for those thoughts. He glances down at his boots, sinking into the thick mud where he’s wandered off the beaten path in distraction, and sighs, grimacing at the clean up work he’ll have to do later.

The cemetery is only a ten minute walk outside the city gates, right at the edge of the surrounding forest. It’s small and horribly neglected, with overgrown bushes covering most of the headstones and markers illegible with rough weathering. He stands at the cemetery’s decrepit wood fence and looks around. The mud makes it difficult to tell if the ground has been recently disturbed, but maybe the grass can tell him a different story.

Geralt gives up after nearly an hour of looking, grumbling and sweating under the heat of the morning sun. The recent storms have washed away any evidence of monster activity, leaving him no choice but to come back tonight to test his theory.

\--- 

Jaskier drags him to a small tavern for a noon meal, grabbing a table in the corner and heading up to the front to order food for them. Geralt doesn’t much care what he eats, and he trusts Jaskier to pick something palatable. Geralt allows himself to fall into a light meditation, trying to dispel the frustration of the morning’s endeavors. He falls into calm, focusing on his breathing and slow hear rate, feeling himself fall into his own body, muscles releasing their tension.

When he opens his eyes again, Jaskier still hasn’t returned. Tension immediately crawls back into his muscles. Geralt looks around, brow furrowing. Barely noon and the bard has disappeared again.

There’s a small, dark doorway near the front of the tavern, and Geralt slips towards it. He glances down the dark hallway—

Jaskier is hidden in the dark, and the guard from the prince’s party is crowding him against the wall. Geralt immediately pulls back, hiding himself and focusing on what he can hear.

“I didn’t think I’d run into you again—“ the man growls.

“I don’t owe you anything—“ Jaskier responds, voice hard. His heart rate is elevated, but not to a level that worries Geralt.

“You left,” the guard accuses, “I woke up and you were gone.”

Geralt’s brow furrows.

“What did you expect,” Jaskier hisses, “Did you expect me to stay, Raymond? You don’t own me—“

“I could,” the man, Raymond, says, voice dark and threatening. Jaskier’s pulse leaps and he sucks in a sharp breath. Geralt shoulders tense.

“And now I find you in the company of a witcher? You spread your legs for that mutant now—“

The sharp sound of an open palm against flesh echoes down the hallway, and a ringing silence ensues.

“Don’t talk about him like that,” Jaskier says, voice shaking.

“So it’s like that, is it,” Raymond sneers, “Does he know?”

“Raymond—“ Jaskier suddenly sounds worried, and Geralt debates interceding.

“Does he know you were my whore first?”

Geralt’s jaw clenches, teeth grinding. He’s about to step into the hallway when the sound of Jaskier’s hurried footsteps start approaching, and Geralt turns and slides away into the crowd, not wanting to be caught listening to a very private conversation. Jaskier heads straight for the tavern’s exit, carving through the crowd without his usual elegance, and his eyes are shinier than normal—

Geralt’s thoughts spin. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s torn between cornering this Raymond guy and going after Jaskier. Jaskier. He’ll always choose Jaskier.

\---

He takes a deep breath as he steps out of the tavern, tracking Jaskier’s scent. He follows the bard’s trail to the side of the tavern, where he finds Jaskier leaning up against the stone wall, arms crossed and head down.

“Jaskier?”

The bard looks up, fire in his eyes, ready to fight. When he sees it’s only Geralt, he softens his face and tries for a smile.

“You heard all that,” he asks.

Geralt shrugs, not sure how to answer.

“Are you okay,” Geralt asks, feeling clumsy and stupid.

Jaskier runs a hand down his face, looking away from Geralt to gather himself for a moment. He smells hot, _furious,_ and Geralt’s arms hang uselessly by his sides, unsure what to do.

“Yes. I’m just…angry.”

“Jaskier…you’d tell me if you were in danger, right?”

The question visibly surprises Jaskier, but the bard walks up to him, tugging at the front of his clothes to pull him into the shadows.

“Big, scary witcher, concerned about little old me,” he teases, but the playfulness doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns, not amused.

“Yes, I know. Sorry,” Jaskier says, leaning up to press a soft, slow kiss to the side of Geralt’s mouth. Geralt’s hands slide up to grip at Jaskier’s waist, reveling in the soft material of his doublet.

“I would tell you,” Jaskier says, though his heart trips a bit when he says it.

“Hmm,” Geralt grumbles. Jaskier’s stomach growls loudly and Geralt presses a hand into the small of his back, guiding him out into the sunlight. He’ll try to approach the topic from a different angle later.

“Food,” he says, and Jaskier’s resulting laugh is genuine— ringing out in the alleyway and lifting tension faster than his meditation ever could.

\---

“I have a theory,” Geralt tells Jaskier over lunch, taking pleasure in watching Jaskier’s good humor return after his encounter with this mysterious Raymond character.

“Have you figured out what the not-wendigo is,” Jaskier asks, using a thick chunk of bread to soak up the remains of his stew and popping it in his mouth. It’s rare that they get such hearty, well-seasoned meals, and Jaskier lets his joy be known with soft moans of pleasure that Geralt finds extremely distracting.

“Maybe. There’s an abandoned cemetery just outside of the city limits— it’s close enough to where the people have gone missing that I suspect a grave hag.”

“A what,” Jaskier asks, nose wrinkling. It’s adorable, and Geralt wants to press his lips to the side of Jaskier’s nose and feel the curve of skin beneath his lips.

“A grave hag. They’re humanoid creatures that make their homes near battlefields and cemeteries— wherever the dead lay. They normally stick to eating the dead, but when their supply of corpses run out, they’ve been known to kill the living and store them underground, especially in the colder months. It may be what’s happened here.”

Jaskier grimaces, pushing his empty bowl away.

“I may be wrong, but it’s hard to tell— the recent storms have washed away any signs of a grave hag.”

“Okay, so what do we do?”

“Grave hags hunt at night, so I’ll return to the cemetery after sunset.”

“I’ll go with you,” Jaskier says, eyes lighting up.

Geralt squints.

“Please? You never let me go with you,” Jaskier whines, foot tapping against Geralt’s ankle under the table.

“For good reason. It’s dangerous,” Geralt warns, remembering the struggle he had with a grave hag nearly a year previous. It had been a tough fight, and he didn’t have to anyone to look after then.

“Grave hags are very fast, very strong, and they have a long, prehensile tongue that—“

“Prehensile tongue,” Jaskier yelps, eyes wide and horrified.

“They primarily use their tongues to collect bone marrow from corpses, but it is also a weapon. It’s dangerous,” he reiterates.

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, voice soft and fingers even softer where they reach across the table and ghost along the inside of his wrist.

Geralt knows exactly what Jaskier is doing, and yet he still feels himself giving in. If Jaskier is here while Geralt is away, he may run into that Raymond guy again, and Geralt won’t be there to intervene if it goes sideways. However, if Jaskier is with him, at least he can keep an eye on him—

“Fine,” he grumbles with a roll of his eyes, heart throbbing at Jaskier celebratory yell.

“I won’t get in the way, I promise,” Jaskier says, resting his chin on his hands and batting his eyes, laughing at Geralt resultant eyebrow raise.

\---

This was a fucking mistake.

The hag dodges him and he slips in the thick mud, muscles burning with exhaustion. He sucks in a sharp breath as he twists to regain his footing, but too late— he yells out as stinging pain erupts across his eyes and his vision goes black.

He looks around wildly, uselessly, but there’s only darkeness. Geralt shifts his focus to his other senses.

Geralt twists towards the screaming wind, mud and wild grasses tangling in his boots, he stumbles—

Shit, where is Jaskier?

_(You’re going to kill me—)_

His heart trips in his chest, Jaskier’s voice from his horrible, drugged nightmare echoing in his head.

“Don’t move, Jaskier,” he yells, listening carefully for Jaskier’s heartbeat. He’s still behind the tree on the outskirts of the cemetery— heart drumming and breath shallow.

Mud squelches beneath him, heart pounding in his ears, gloves creaking around the hilt of his sword.

He smells her— rotting and sick, approaching fast through the muck behind him and he spins, aiming for the slick sound of her tongue as it lashes through the air, trying to hit him again—

The appendage goes flying, severed with a clean cut from his sword. Her shriek of agony hurts his ears, but he can locate her now and dives forward, bringing his sword down hard, through the hag’s wide ribcage, parting thick muscle, down into the wet earth. Her death gargle echoes in the air and Geralt adjusts his feet, stabbing his sword into her again, just to be sure.

The world is still dark and he steps back and staggers to his knees, cold mud seeping into his pants.

“Jaskier?”

He hears Jaskier’s hands drag along the bark of the tree as he moves from behind it, boots squelching in the wet earth as he runs over.

“Geralt,” he sounds worried, voice high and tense.

“’M okay,” he says, standing up again, looking in the direction of Jaskier’s breathing.

“What’s wrong? She hit you with her…tongue? What—“

"Are you okay," Geralt asks, a bit too sharp. He can't _see_ Jaskier and the taunting words he thought he had forgotten are looping in his mind—

_(You’re going to kill me. You're going to kill me. You're going to—)_

Jaskier takes a sharp inhale and his hands are suddenly against Geralt’s cheeks, sweeping his hair out of his eyes and tilting his chin down.

“What’s wrong with your eyes?”

The bard’s heartbeat has shot up, higher than it was when he first saw the hag—

“I’ll be fine in a moment,” Geralt reassures him, touching the back of Jaskier’s hand.

“It’s a temporary blindness, caused by the grave hag’s tongue.”

“Blindness,” Jaskier yelps, and hands slide along Geralt’s jaw, thumb rubbing along the stubble. Geralt closes his eyes, focusing of the soft feeling of his skin, the calluses from his lute, the smell of his skin, tinged with fear and relief.

“Temporary,” Geralt reiterates.

“You…you did all that without being able to see her?”

“All of my senses are enhanced,” Geralt says, “I could hear and smell her, easily.”

Jaskier lets out a puff of air, laughing.

“That’s…really impressive,” Jaskier admits, and there’s the spicy heat scent of arousal, quickly pushed away and Jaskier fumbles with his shoulder bag.

“What’re you doing,” Geralt asks tilting his head and looking off into the distance.

“You look like a puppy when you do that,” Jaskier says, voice shaky as he continues to loot around in his bag.

“Would it help if I rinsed your eyes with water?”

“Maybe,” Geralt says. It won’t, but he’s not going to pass up the opportunity to have Jaskier take care of him.

“Can I lead you to the tree? To sit?”

Geralt nods and Jaskier takes his forearm, leading him carefully through the muck, around the grave hag’s corpse.

Geralt can hear Jaskier’s hands shake a bit as he unscrews the cap of his water skein— the metal rattling together sharply in the night air, but his grip is sure when his fingers tilt Geralt’s chin up. He warns Geralt before sliding water along his eyes, instructing him to blink rapidly.

It lights up that same, warm pit in his stomach from last night— something about having Jaskier tell him what to do, taking control, taking _care_ of him—

Jaskier’s careful fingers wipe the water from his cheeks, touching him with such tenderness that Geralt aches. His thumb presses into the cleft of Geralt’s chin and Geralt swallows hard, salivating at the touch.

“Does it hurt,” Jaskier asks, voice a bit thick.

“Hmm,” Geralt responds, words gone. Jaskier huffs and recaps his water skein.

“Should we stay here until you can see again or do you want to head back to the city?”

What Geralt wants is to pull Jaskier into his lap, bury himself in Jaskier's scent and hold the bard close until Geralt's vision returns. He stands up instead, muscles straining with exhaustion.

“Back to the city,” he says, “my sight will have returned by the time we get there.”

\---

And he’s right, his vision has returned, but the exhaustion is setting in hard.

Jaskier orders a bath, peeling Geralt’s armor off and guiding him into the metal tub. The hot water is perfect and cleansing, and Geralt ducks below the water to clean his face. When he surfaces, Jaskier sits behind him with a comb and starts brushing through his hair— something Geralt has discovered Jaskier loves to do. It feels wonderful, so he never discourages the attention.

Geralt nearly falls asleep to the feel of Jaskier’s fingers in his hair and the scent of pine and steam filling his lungs. When he's done brushing through Geralt's hair, Jaskier shifts to kneel next to the tub and Geralt blinks heavy eyes open to throw him a questioning look.

Jaskier rolls a sleeve up to his elbow, gives Geralt a mischievous smile, and reaches down into the water.

_Oh._

Geralt sucks in a breath at the first touch of Jaskier’s hand against his hip. Geralt’s already half hard from having Jaskier’s fingers in his hair, and Geralt lets his thighs fall open as Jaskier’s hand moves through the warm water to trace along his dick.

His hips shift at the feel of Jaskier’s hand gripping him, pulling him slowly to full hardness.

“Okay,” Jaskier asks, and Geralt nods vigorously.

He wants to reciprocate, but as his hand moves towards Jaskier, the bard hums and guides his hand back to the edge of the tub.

He leans close, pressing his mouth against Geralt’s ear and whispering: “let me.”

Geralt shivers and his grip on the tub tightens. Jaskier stays close, squeezing and rubbing and quickly making Geralt lose control. He struggles to keep his hips still, embarrassed every time the water sloshes when he can’t quite keep himself steady. Jaskier keeps their mouths pressed together, kissing and biting at his lips.

Geralt hears Jaskier’s free hand slide into his breeches and he starts jacking himself, the smell of his arousal floating in the steamy air. Geralt badly wants to lift Jaskier into the tub, but he’s too overwhelmed to do much more than growl against Jaskier’s tongue.

“Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles, sliding hot, swollen lips along the stubble of Geralt’s jaw, pressing kisses along his skin until he can whisper into Geralt’s ear.

“You feel so good,” he says, voice strained and hot. Geralt’s hips jerk and he can practically hear Jaskier connect the dots.

“You're so perfect in my hand, hot and thick, gods I want you in me, claiming me—“

Geralt growls.

“Yes, big scary white wolf, writhing under me,” Jaskier taunts, biting at his neck, teeth pinching skin and making Geralt’s hips jolt hard, water splashing over the rim of the tub.

“Jaskier,” Geralt gasps as Jaskier’s fingers rub under the head of his erection.

“Cum for me, Geralt. You’re so pretty when you cum. Let me see it, darling,”

Geralt twists his head away, flush filling his cheeks, but Jaskier just won’t let up—

“You are, darling, so pretty, please, let me see you—“

Geralt tips over the edge with Jaskier’s words, mouth dropping open and vision whiting out.

He comes back to himself breathing hard and feeling oversensitive in the water. The smell of Jaskier’s orgasm lingers in the air and he breathes deeply, something hot and delicate settling in his chest. Jaskier presses more kisses into his neck and helps guide him out of the tub, exhaustion and the warm flush of orgasm making Geralt slow and malleable.

They collapse into bed, naked and tangled together, and fall quickly into sleep.


	3. a perfumed letter, spilled ale, and a very well polished silver sword

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is safely asleep in his arms, breath slow and warm against Geralt’s neck, oblivious to the danger visiting them in the night. Geralt tracks the intruder— his creeping footsteps pad across the carefully waxed wood flooring, his breathing shallow and tight in preparation for action. Geralt slits his eyes open, knowing whomever it is won’t be able to see his amber gaze in the dark. 

There’s someone in the room.

Consciousness slams into Geralt—a rapid, panic-driven heartbeat is slipping into the room through the balcony window. Geralt freezes, assessing—

Jaskier is safely asleep in his arms, breath slow and warm against Geralt’s neck, oblivious to the danger visiting them in the night. Geralt tracks the intruder— his creeping footsteps pad across the carefully waxed wood flooring, his breathing shallow and tight in preparation for action. Geralt slits his eyes open, knowing whomever it is won’t be able to see his amber gaze in the dark. 

But Geralt can see perfectly. The intruder pauses at the end of their mattress, one hand sliding towards his belt. There’s the sharp-slick sound of steel being pulled from a hilt—

In one smooth motion Geralt slides from the bed, snags his concealed dagger from beneath the mattress, twists up and buries the weapon to the hilt in the would-be assassin’s chest, muscle parting beneath the blade and hot blood pouring out across Geralt’s bare hand. The man’s breath leaves him in a startled burst and he’s a corpse by the time his body hits the floor.

Jaskier’s makes a soft, startled sound from behind him and Geralt twists to see a second intruder vaulting through the window.

The second assassin swings around at the sound of Geralt’s low growl, blade managing to slice across Geralt’s bicep. Geralt ducks into the man’s space, gripping the intruder’s wrist and hearing the bones crack and the sharp clatter of the assassin’s blade landing on the floor. Geralt pins him fast with a heavy knee to the back, pressing his bloodied dagger against the intruder’s sweat slick neck.

“Who sent you,” Geralt demands.

The man grimaces, heart rabbiting as his eyes dart around, looking for an escape that isn’t there. Geralt squeezes the man’s broken wrist, eliciting a sharp cry of pain.

“It was a fool’s errand to send two men to assassinate a witcher,” Geralt hisses, “Who sent you to your death?”

The man doesn’t respond, and Geralt hears the floor creak behind him as Jaskier moves to stand.

“Don’t move, Jaskier,” he snaps. Jaskier’s breath stutters but he stays put.

“I don’t want to kill you,” Geralt tells the intruder beneath him.

“If I let you up, will you talk?”

The man nods, breathing hard. Geralt shifts, standing and pulling the blade away from his throat. The man immediately jumps into action— bucking and twisting, lunging for his discarded blade—

He snarls and dodges towards Geralt, and Geralt ducks away easily. Agonized by his shattered wrist and unable to see in the dark, he flails frantically towards the sound of Jaskier’s panicked breathing. The sharp blade arcs towards Jaskier and Geralt doesn’t think—slipping behind the stranger, gripping his head. The sound of his neck snapping is a canon in the night air.

Jaskier gasps, shocked by the sound and stumbling back, spine smacking into the wall next to their bed. Geralt lowers the man’s body to the floor and a sick silence descends in the room, broken only by Jaskier’s shallow breathing.

“Geralt,” Jaskier asks, voice trembling as wide, unseeing eyes look around frantically. He puts one hand out, searching in vain through the dark.

Jaskier’s fear is a thorn in Geralt’s heart, and he reaches out, fingers ghosting along Jaskier’s palm. Jaskier yelps and flinches away, hands grappling for a weapon.

Shit, he forgot— Jaskier can’t _see_ him.

“It’s me,” Geralt murmurs, wrapping his fingers around Jaskier’s wrists to stop him from slamming his hands into anything in his panic.

“It’s me, Jaskier,” Geralt reassures, letting go of one of Jaskier’s wrists and casting Igni to light the lantern by the bed. Eye flinching in the sudden flood of yellow light, Jaskier looks around and Geralt steps away to give him space to breathe.

Jaskier’s gaze snags on the corpses bleeding red on the floorboards and he presses a horrified hand to his mouth.

“Assassins,” Geralt grumbles, the cut on his bicep stinging faintly. He twists his arms to inspect the wound and Jaskier makes a quiet, surprised sound.

“You’re hurt,” he murmurs, hands fluttering near his arm.

“Just a graze. It’s fine,” Geralt says, frustrated that he let the assassin get close enough to nick him.

Jaskier glances back down at the dead men, gaze going hollow and distant as he tracks the spreading pool of blood— a neck twisted at an unnatural angle—

Shit.

“Come with me,” Geralt murmurs, fingers sliding to the base of Jaskier’s spine, guiding him to the bathing room and out of site of the cooling bodies. He gets Jaskier seated at the side of the tub.

“Heard them come in,” Geralt murmurs, grabbing a clean cloth and dunking it in their cold drinking water. He wrings it out and kneels in front of Jaskier, pressing the drenched cloth to the back of Jaskier’s neck.

Water trickles down the side of Jaskier’s neck onto his sleep shirt and Geralt’s eyes drop to the pulse thundering along Jaskier’s exposed skin. Geralt grips one of Jaskier’s knees with his free hand, trying to mimic the soothing strokes that Jaskier uses on him when he’s wound up.

“Who would send assassins,” Jaskier asks, “seems like a dumb idea— trying to kill someone who gets rid of monsters for a living.”

“I don’t know,” Geralt confesses, “whoever it was must have known they were sending those men to their death.”

“Humble,” Jaskier comments, though he too looks puzzled. Relieved to see some life come back into Jaskier’s face, Geralt jostles the knee under his grip gently, chest warming at Jaskier’s small smile.

“They were trained,” Geralt says.

“You took care of them easily enough,” Jaskier whispers, and Geralt should not feel a swell of pride in his chest, but he does.

He runs his hand up Jaskier’s thigh, his own tension dropping as he hears Jaskier’s heart beat return to a more normal human pace. Staring up into Jaskier’s glittering blue eyes, he hears the voice from his dream again—

_You’re going to get me killed._

Blinking hard to disperse the sudden anxiety, he squeezes the nape of Jaskier’s neck.

“We should look them over, see if we can find any clues,” Geralt says. Jaskier nods leaning to brace his forehead against Geralt’s shoulder.

“I’ll do it,” Geralt says, hands aching to encase Jaskier and hold him close, safe from the world and all the endless horrors that haunt Geralt’s steps.

“I’ll help,” Jaskier insists, pulling away to look into Geralt’s eyes. He grimaces at Geralt’s quizzical look.

“I’m more knowledgeable about city people than you are, so I might see something you don’t.”

Geralt cannot deny that, so he just rubs a tense hand across his face and follows Jaskier’s insistent stride back towards the dead men.

The assassins are nondescript; dressed in dark linen, suspiciously unblemished for fighting men. Geralt doesn’t know their faces, but they smell of soap and healthy food. Whoever hired them had money, and a lot of it.

Jaskier’s eyes keep tracking to the second man.

“What is it,” Geralt asks after catching him staring for a third time.

Jaskier grimaces, “I don’t know. He just…seems familiar.”

As expected there’s nothing in the assassin’s pockets, but their daggers are well made and very sharp. Geralt brings the second assassin’s clean blade to his nose. He can smell old blood, wiped clean but still lingering. Their boots are soft and worn, but undamaged and light— perfect for sneaking into places where they shouldn’t be.

Geralt grabs his satchel and heads to the door.

“What are you doing,” Jaskier asks.

“I’m going to order some ale for us,” Geralt says from the doorway, not looking back, “then I’m going to take care of the bodies.”

He closes the door before he can see Jaskier’s expression.

\---

Geralt and Jaskier head to the castle as soon as the sun crests over the horizon, intent on closing their contract with the prince and heading out of the city.

Jaskier mentions, off hand, that he’d like to take a look in one of the shops for a new quill, but Geralt insists that Jaskier stay close. They have no lead on who sent the assassins, and he’s not going to let Jaskier out of his sight. Jaskier pouts, but his eyes catch on Geralt’s bicep where a small wound hides beneath his black shirt, and he frowns hard, nodding in acceptance.

The stuffy, sharp-nosed guard won’t let Jaskier into the Prince’s meeting room, so Geralt is forced to leave him in the narrow hallway outside. He’s gearing up to argue when Jaskier pulls out his lute and settles down, strumming along the strings. At least he can listen for Jaskier’s playing while his patience is tested by the spoiled prince.

“You had a grave hag outside the city limits yesterday, at the abandoned cemetery—“ Geralt starts.

“A what?”

“A grave hag. They’re drawn to cemeteries and battlefields—“

Prince Reginald waved an airy hand, dismissing the topic. Geralt tunes into the soft sound of Jaskier’s lute in the hallway, the calm notes quelling his frustration.

“Another person has been attacked by the beast,” the Prince says, and for the first time he looks agitated, standing and pacing behind his ornate, oversized desk. Geralt lifts a brow.

“What makes you think it’s connected?”

“The body was found, and I’ve been assured by the mortician that this was the work of a monster.”

The Prince spins around, penciled in eyebrows pulled down as he glares at Geralt.

“What am I paying you for, witcher?”

Geralt clenches his jaw at the tone, anchoring himself again with the soft notes of Jaskier’s lute.

“May I see the body,” he asks, refusing to rise to the bait.

“I expect you to do so. Stop by the morgue and hand them this,” Prince Reginald says, handing Geralt a letter sealed in gold wax— the paper saturated in some heady perfume that immediately makes Geralt want to sneeze.

“I want this fixed, witcher,” the Prince frowns at him, looking into the giant mirror behind his desk and twisting his carefully curled hair around his fingers, placing them across his forehead.

“I’m tired of hearing people _complain_ about being _scared_ —“

Geralt feels his mouth twist and he pinches the letter between his fingers, hard.

“I expect this to be taken care of, as quickly as possible.”

An aid appears from a side door, and when he brings a letter up to the prince, Reginald turns his back to Geralt, conversation ended.

Wordlessly dismissed, Geralt turns to step out into the hall, reveling in the way the prince’s distraction has allowed Geralt to get away with forgoing any ridiculous bow. As his fingers brush the doorknob he realizes he can’t hear Jaskier’s lute anymore. He slides through the door quickly, looking up and down the hall.

Jaskier isn’t there.

One day, he’s going to put a lead on that man up so he can’t wander off and get into trouble.

Heading towards the entrance of the castle, relief slides down his spine as he hears the bard’s soft singing voice echoing from the castle’s entry way.

He follows the trail, feet nailing to the ground when he finds Raymond leaning against the stone hallway in front of him. His back is to Geralt as he hides in the shadows, watching Jaskier entertain a small group of excited children with a joyful, simple tune. Geralt feels something unpleasant crawl up his spine as he observes the guard—

Raymond’s heart rate is elevated, and he smells of a cloying perfume. It’s an odd choice for a Prince’s guard, especially someone who postures so aggressively any chance he can get.

Before he can talk himself out of it, Geralt steps up behind the guard and crossing his arms, leaning against the hallway across from Raymond.

“Is it always this easy to sneak up on Prince Reginald’s guards,” he asks, taking pleasure in Raymond’s flinch. The man twists around and glares at Geralt, hand automatically going to his sword. Geralt tilts his head, unimpressed.

“Don’t think we’ve met,” Geralt says, keeping his voice monotone. A muscle tics in Raymond’s jaw and the sudden smell of sweat breaks through his perfume.

“Geralt of Rivia,” Geralt says, maintaining eye contact, letting the other man feel the weight of his inhuman eyes and take in the breadth of his shoulders looming in the shadows. He doesn’t offer a hand.

“Raymond de Merville,” the guard says, blinking as Jaskier laughs behind him, children giggling and shrieking in joy.

“I’ve heard of you,” Raymond says, eyes travelling over him, distaste clear in his gaze.

“I haven’t heard of you,” Geralt responds, keeping all the emotion out of his face.

“A witcher. And not only any witcher…the Butcher of Blaviken.”

Raymond’s voice is a snake— hissing and insinuating around what he truly wants to say. Something about it makes Geralt’s fingers itch for his blade—

“What have we done to deserve your presence,” Raymond asks, stepping closer.

“It seems you have a monster problem,” Geralt replies, letting his gaze speak for him. _A monster problem you can’t control._

“Geralt!”

They both turn to find Jaskier waving their way, carefully keeping his gaze on Geralt.

“A wild thing in bed, isn’t he?”

Geralt almost can’t believe Raymond has spoken. He’s shocked silent, turning his gaze to give Raymond a sharp look.

“Better hold him down so he can’t escape,” Raymond sneers, pleased at the rage Geralt cannot keep off his face. He wants more than anything to feel the give of Raymond’s flesh beneath his hands. But he’s a witcher and Raymond is a trusted member of Prince Reginald’s guard. His hands are tied.

“I don’t have to hold him down. He stays of his own accord,” Geralt says before he can think better of it. A firestorm breaks out in Raymond’s eyes and before he can respond Geralt steps by him. He refuses to look back as he walks across the stone entryway, but he hears Raymond make a growling sound and spin around, walking away down the hallway with heavy feet.

The children have taken up some game amongst themselves while Jaskier sits against one of the long entryway tables. His eyes keep darting back to where Raymond disappeared while he tries to smile up at Geralt.

“Well,” he asks.

“We’re to go to the morgue,” Geralt displays the Prince’s perfumed letter, “apparently the grave hag wasn’t the monster we were looking for.”

\---

The morgue in question is damp and disgusting— mildew climbing along the stone corners and wet decay hanging in the air. It’s to be expected, really. A city with such a huge population guarantees many deaths every day, but it’s still an unpleasant place and Geralt will be happy to bathe the stench off of him tonight ( _and hopefully replace it with the familiar scent of Jaskier’s skin_ , his traitorous mind supplies).

The elderly undertaker inspects the prince’s letter with pale, suspicious eyes, turning it over many times before glaring at them.

“This way,” he says without an introduction, leading them down a cold, narrow hallway and into a wide, low ceilinged space. Geralt’s eyes are immediately drawn to the wood table in the center of the room.

There’s a worn sheet laying across a body, hiding it from view, but Geralt can smell the rot easily from the doorway.

The undertaker gestures them over and, with the easy motion of someone desensitized to violent death, pulls the sheet all the way off the body.

Jaskier gags and looks away.

“Okay, wasn’t expecting that,” he says, and Gerlat can hear his heart rate shoot up.

Prone on the table is the body of a large, balding man, perhaps in the middle of his life. Geralt immediately notices several things about the state of the corpse. The first thing he notices is the four large, even slash wounds splitting the man’s belly open from the left side of his ribcage all the way to his right hip. The second thing he notices are the large chunk of flesh missing from his left thigh, along his right side, and upper chest. The third thing Geralt notices is the _smell_. Beneath the putrid death scent something else lingers— pungent and familiar.

_Bear._

“Hmm,” Geralt hums.

“Gods, what happened to this man,” Jaskier asks, pressing a hand to his pale mouth.

 _Time to hurry this meeting along_ , Geralt thinks, turning to the undertaker.

“Where are his clothes,” Geralt asks the bored old man, whose beady eyes are watching Jaskier’s horror with something akin to hunger.

“He was found naked,” the man answers, not looking away from Jaskier. Now that he has noticed it, he can’t stop smelling bear. It’s overwhelming, and his shoulders shift against the swords along his back.

“And his identity,” Geralt shifts closer to Jaskier, drawing the old man’s eyes away from the bard.

“Unknown,” the man dismisses shortly, as though he’s given the same answer a hundred times today.

Geralt glances at the corpse’s smooth, soft hands— the umblemished skin.

“He’s an academic,” Geralt says, and the undertaker’s eyes snap to him. The hunger is aimed towards him now, and turns to Jaskier—

“How do you know,” the undertaker asks, more of an accusation than a question.

“I’ve seen enough,” Geralt prevaricates, stepping away and gesturing towards the door.

“Wait— what? Already,” Jaskier asks, turning and walking ahead of Geralt.

“We’re done here,” Geralt says firmly, wanting to get away from the undertaker and the smell of death and _monster_.

\---

“Well, that was horrifying,” Jaskier says, shaking the tension out his shoulders as they walk away from the morgue. Geralt takes a moment to watch Jaskier— the sun has rejuvenated him—warm and glowing, face turned up towards the sun. His brown hair glitters in the light, eyes clear and sparkling. Geralt feels a sudden, horrible ache to go _home_ — and to bring Jaskier with him.

The stench of death and monster is pushed away, only to be replaced with a new, looming realization that he really does not want to investigate right now.

“Let’s get a drink,” Geralt suggests, hoping it will push the sudden ache in his chest away.

Jaskier wastes no time asking him about the morgue, eyes sharp and knowing as he takes a drink of his cold, crisp ale:

“What killed that man?”

Geralt glances around the small bar. Two men are working at the counter— scrubbing used mugs and cloudy glasses. A couple of elderly men chat over a game of gwent in the corner.

“It’s a werebear,” Geralt says, voice low to avoid prying ears.

Jaskier chokes on his drink, liquid spilling down his front. Geralt’s eyes dip to the shine of liquid along the curve of Jaskier’s lips and he looks away quickly, glancing at the other patrons partly to see if Jaskier’s outburst has drawn any attention but mostly to distract himself from leaning over the tabletop and embarrassing them in public.

“Pardon me— a what,” Jaskier asks, dabbing at the front of his green doublet with a cloth napkin, trying to soak up some of the spilled ale. Geralt wishes he would wipe his lips so Geralt could _focus._

“Also known as Berserkers,” he stops to clear his throat as Jaskier’s tongue darts out to collect the ale across his lips.

“They can transform either partially or fully into large bears, usually in the heat of battle, though some have more control of their form than others. Some are born with the curse, some acquire it, and some…choose to curse themselves.”

Geralt glances at the gwent players, but the men are fully absorbed in their game and edging towards an argument.

“Why do you keep looking around,” Jaskier asks, observant as ever.

“It could be anyone. They can blend in perfectly with human populations. The only way to find the culprit is to catch them in their shifted shape. But, if I can get close enough, I should be able to smell the monster on them.”

“Well, that’s good,” Jaskier says with false cheer, lowering his voice to a harsh whisper, “Only the entire population of Gots Velen to check over. ‘Excuse me, by any chance, do you occasionally change into a giant bear and savage the human population? No? Well then you won’t mind my friend here taking a good whiff of you just to check, right?’”

The sit in silence for a moment, and Geralt glares into his drink, hoping an answer will spring forth from the ochre depths.

“Are they random attacks,” Jaskier asks, staring off into the middle distance.

“Werebears usually attack with intention,” Geralt answers, following Jaskier’s train of thought.

“I would suggest that we look at the list of victims,” Geralt murmurs, “but we have no way of knowing who was taken by the berserker and who was a victim of the grave hag.”

“Perhaps we should stick to the one victim we know was killed by this monster— the academic,” Jaskier says.

The sudden silence in the room makes Geralt glance around.

 _Fuck._ Their whispering has started to garner an audience. The elderly men are no longer playing gwent, giving each other significant looks and casting suspicious eyes towards Geralt.

“Back to the tavern,” Jaskier suggests to Geralt’s relief and he agrees quickly.

“I need to change anyway,” Jaskier says, looking at his doublet mournfully.

“Maybe I can get this stain out.”

\---

Jaskier drops his beloved green doublet into a basin of cold water to soak, letting out a dramatic sigh as he stares down at the dark cloth.

Geralt clenches his jaw at the sound and resolutely stares down at his swords, polishing them perhaps more intently than normal.

They had made a quick stop by the university on their way back to the tavern, and it seems Geralt was right. The university’s history professor didn’t show up that day, and the description of the professor matched their dead man perfectly.

He only dares to look up when Jaskier has seated himself across the small table from Geralt.

“It could be a disgruntled student or something,” Jaskier suggests, running a hand through his soft hair.

Geralt puts his silver sword aside, bracing his elbows against the table.

“Odd list of people,” Geralt admits, “a history professor, and the other victims, who may or may not be tied to a berserker: two peasants, a farmer, a carpenter, and a shepherd.”

“If we just assume one or more of those people were killed by a berserker… the professor stands out quite blatantly, don’t you think?”

“Maybe the berserker knows the professor,” Geralt suggests, brushing a hand along his jaw, feeling the stubble drag along his thumb. He needs a shave.

“Is it possible that the professor could have figured out who the berserker is,” Jaskier asks.

Geralt feels the furrow in his brow flatten out. That makes sense.

“There are several prominent berserker attacks in the past, and they’ve become popular on the battlefield as well…It’s possible the professor could have recognized the signs of a werebear in the area.”

Jaskier snorts a laugh, hands coming up to cover his face.

“I’m sorry, I’m going to have to insist that you call the monster a berserker. I can’t with the ‘werebear’ thing, and you say it with such a serious face—”

Jaskier laughs, throwing his head back. Geralt’s mouth waters at the sight of his pale neck, bare and clean—

“Tomorrow we can check to see if he filed any complaints with the king,” Jaskier suggests, once his laughter has died down.

Geralt agrees with a hum, running his fingers along the flat of his sword. Jaskier stands to check on his soaking doublet and Geralt’s traitorous eyes sneak a quick glance at the bard as he walks away. He shifts against the chair, clenching his jaw.

Seeing Jaskier in his undershirt always makes heat pool in Geralt’s belly. The soft, vulnerable fabric against Jaskier’s skin— a thin layer hiding him from view— and add to that the lacy, delicate embroidery against Jaskier’s strong, furred chest where the shirt dips low.

Geralt unties the strap holding his hair back and lets the white strands fall across his face. Not only does he need a shave, he needs a _haircut_.

Jaskier appears from the bathing room doorway and Geralt chokes on air. His eyes immediately fall to his bare legs- the soft curve of his calves and up to the vulnerable inner thighs— the soft, pink head of his dick visible below the hem of the tempting undershirt.

“May as well do my pants too,” Jaskier says, sparkling eyes lit up with mischief. Geralt’s restraint snaps and he stands up and stalks around the table, reveling in Jaskier’s delighted laugh.

He presses their lips together, hands immediately going to Jaskier’s thighs and sliding up, cupping against his ass and squeezing. Jaskier hums, pleased, and squirms in his grip. Geralt slowly slides his hands up under that damned undershirt, touching feather light against Jaskier’s lower back.

Jaskier lets out a soft sound at the touch—the warm, spicy smell of his arousal filling the air.

“Bed,” Jaskier demands, hands tugging at Geralt’s biceps.

He walks Jaskier to the bed without breaking their embrace and lowers them to the soft mattress. Jaskier reaches up as soon as his back hits the bed, running his hands through Geralt’s untied hair and cupping his jaw, pressing hungry kisses to Geralt’s lips. Jaskier tastes of ale and bread, but beneath that it’s just him: warm and wet and delicious.

“Off,” he demands against Geralt’s lips, tugging at the hem of Geralt’s black shirt. Geralt tugs the cloth off, throwing it aside and reaching for Jaskier’s undershirt. He slides it up over Jaskier’s head and pauses with it around Jaskier’s wrists, quickly knotting his hands together. Jaskier blinks at him, lust drunk mind catching up to what Geralt’s done, and his blue eyes go dark with surprise.

“Okay,” Geralt asks, always worrying that _this time_ Jaskier will say ‘no…’ but Jaskier nods, throat bobbing as he swallows. Geralt presses their lips together again, sweeping his tongue along Jaskier’s lips, remembering the shine of them in the bar earlier. He pulls back to take in the feast before him— Jaskier laid out with his hands restrained above his head, breathing starting to heighten as arousal swamps him. Geralt runs his hands along the contours of Jaskier’s body, from his arms above his head, down his ribcage, then back up, along the muscles of his belly, over his pectoral muscles, dragging his nails through the hair on his chest. Jaskier’s hips jolt beneath him, an impatient whine tugging from his throat.

Geralt scoots down the bed, pulling Jaskier’s knees wider to make space for his shoulders. He leans down, breathing hot air across Jaskier’s half hard erection.

Jaskier breathes his name, cheeks flushing with Geralt’s close scrutiny.

Geralt presses his mouth to the half hard length, dragging his lips along the shaft, letting his tongue dart out to lick at the soft head. Jaskier yelps and twitches at the stimulation. Geralt pins his hips down and takes Jaskier in his mouth, holding him carefully and laving his tongue along the hardening length. Jaskier’s breathing grows heavy and labored at Geralt’s slow, lazy movements.

It’s intoxicating to feel Jaskier’s arousal build against his tongue, and it doesn’t take long for Jaskier to start pressing against him, wordlessly asking for more.

Geralt’s own hips are aching with a heavy desire to claim, and he pulls off of Jaskier, dick twitching in sympathy at Jaskier’s resultant groan, and crawls up to press their bodies together, hands tangling with Jaskier’s above the bard’s head, fingers running along the binding of Jaskier’s shirt.

“Geralt, wanna feel you in me, please,” Jaskier gets out in a rush— wide, hopeful eye staring up at him in the candlelight.

Geralt wants that, desperately, but—

“I’m not sore anymore, you overprotective, darling witcher,” Jaskier insists, tilting his hips to press against Geralt’s erection, sparking heat along Geralt’s spine.

“Please,” Jaskier mumbles, pressing hot kisses along Geralt’s jaw, ruby flushed lips catching along the stubble on his jawline.

Geralt reaches for the vial of oil by the bed.

He takes his time prepping Jaskier, fingers slow and careful, watching for any indication of lingering soreness. When Jaskier starts to press back against his hand, he reaches for the oil again.

“Let me,” Jaskier says, bringing his hands down from over his head, reaching for the vial. Geralt snags his hands and undoes the shirt from around his wrists, and Jaskier immediately slicks a palm and reaches for him. Geralt twitches at the feel of Jaskier’s slick fingers, soft and dexterous as they slick him up.

“Gods, you’re gorgeous,” Jaskier says, voice shaking and embarrassed. Geralt swallows, pre-cum sliding out of him with Jaskier’s words.

Jaskier immediately rubs the slick in with the oil, bringing his other hand down to cup against Geralt’s balls, feeling their weight in his palm. He leans up and kisses against Geralt’s neck, pressing his lips against Geralt’s thundering pulse.

“I love the feel of you, so heavy and thick in my hands. I need to feel you in me, please—“

“Now,” Geralt demands, taking Jaskier’s hands away before he loses control of himself.

Kneeling up between Jaskier’s spread thighs, Geralt grips himself and presses into Jaskier slowly, pausing just inside the bard and breathing.

“Don’t tease, Geralt,” Jaskier whines, trying to press back against him. Geralt gives in with a growl, gripping Jaskiers hips and sliding fully into the bard, reveling in Jaskier’s sharp gasp.

He has to stop for a long moment, pinning Jaskier down so he doesn’t squirm and fray Geralt’s thin control over himself.

Slowly they build a rhythm, Geralt rolling his hips into Jaskier, tangling their hands together above Jaskier’s head and pressing biting kisses into the bard’s neck.

“Harder,” Jaskier begs, straining against Geralt’s grip.

“Please, need to feel you,” he murmurs. Geralt shifts and presses his hip up, feeling Jaskier jolt and tense against him as he finds the spot within the bard that makes him whine and beg.

“Oh! Yes, Geralt, there, again—“

Geralt gives in, thrusting hard into Jaskier, no doubt waking their neighbors with the jolting of the headboard.

Jaskier tugs at his wrists where they’re trapped.

“Geralt, please, touch me—“

“Like this,” Geralt demands, tightening his hands around Jaskier’s wrists, grinding his hips into the bard and delighting in the whine it elicits.

“Geralt, I can’t—“

“Like this,” he repeats, rolling his hips harder, demanding, and with a shocked yell Jaskier spills between them, mouth dropping open in shock.

Geralt bites his lip hard to avoid falling after him, chest heaving with restraint. Sweat slips down his back, cooling in the night air, and his breathing shakes and shivers, waiting—

“Geralt,” Jaskier mumbles, lips slow in the wake of his release. When he tugs at his wrists this time, Geralt lets him go, and the bard’s hands immediately go to his sides.

“You’re turn, darling,” he urges, hands soothing against his damp skin. He tugs at Geralt’s hips, encouraging.

“Don’t want to hurt you,” Geralt manages, knowing how Jaskier gets oversensitive—

“You won’t darling,” Jaskier presses his lips to Geralt’s temple, “please.”

Geralt groans, letting himself press in Jaskier, achingly slow.

“That’s it, let me take care of you, now,” Jaskier encourages, voice soft and warm and so temptingly safe. Geralt feels a blush flood his cheeks, but Jaskier’s voice is so nice—

“Give it to me, my dear, I want to feel you spill in me,” Jaskier says, words falling like gems between them.

“You’re so gentle with me, I’m so lucky,” Jaskier says, and Geralt feels a thorn of protest in his mind, but he shoves it away, aching to live in this moment and bask in Jaskier’s approval forever—

Geralt build a slow rhythm, close to the edge, any moment now—

“Come in me, Geralt. Claim me. Give it to me,” Jaskier demands, and Geralt obeys, hips stilling. He groans into Jaskier’s neck, vision whiting out.

It’s slow, and different from anything Geralt has experienced, and he doesn’t know how to react to this. But Jaskier is there, running his hands along Geralt’s skin, humming contentedly and holding him together.

“That’s it, thank you darling,” he mumurs, pressing his lips against Geralt’s, saving him from having to speak.

Once he can breathe again, Geralt pulls out, flinching at the soft wince on Jaskier’s face. He shifts to lay on his back, tugging Jaskier close. The bard curls close, resting under Geralt’s arm and running a hand along Geralt’s chest.

It’s not long before Jaskier starts talking, reminiscing about the day— the pretty shops and smiling people, the children who he sang to in the castle. Geralt listens, humming in acknowledgment every once in a while.

“Who’s Raymond?”

The question is out of Geralt’s mouth before he knows it and he winces. After a long, tense moment, Jaskier answers.

“I saw you speaking with him in the castle.”

“If you call that speaking,” Geralt frowns, “I’m just curious how you know him.”

Jaskier gives him a skeptical, knowing look.

“He was a guard for the university in Oxenfurt when I was in school. We had a thing.”

“A thing?”

“A thing— you nosy man,” Jaskier chastises, hand pinching against Geralt’s chest.

He snags Jaskier’s fingers, pressing them to his lips.

“We… slept together. A bit,” Jaskier admits, voice quiet, as though he doesn’t really want Geralt to hear.

“A bit,” Geralt can’t help but pry, then grimaces at his own possessiveness.

“I was young and a romantic, and I couldn’t see that he was a cad. He knew what to say and how to say it. I figured it out eventually, but it took me a bit.”

“You’re still a romantic,” Geralt points out, holding Jaskier’s fingers against his chest.

“Yes, well. I was naïve, I guess.”

“He hurt you.”

Jaskier grimaces and sighs heavily, confirming Geralt’s suspicions.

Geralt’s lets go of Jaskier’s hand and taps at Jaskier’s chin until he makes eye contact.

“He hurt you,” Geralt reiterates.

“Yes,” Jaskier admits, eyes darting around, “but it was a long time ago…don’t waste your time thinking about it.”

“Hmm,” Geralt hums, running his fingers through Jaskier’s hair. Jaskier turns his face away, running his hands along the hair of Geralt’s chest, anxiety channeling through his twitching fingers.

Geralt thinks about the few moments he’s witnessed between Jaskier and Raymond. He’s seen similar dynamics in people throughout his life, and the symptoms always point to the same conclusion. He _hates_ it—

A harsh, loud knock jars the stillness between them.

“What kind of hour is this to come knocking? Do you think someone was complaining about the noise,” Jaskier asks, smirking up at Geralt.

Geralt sighs, shoving the covers off of his hips and standing. He pulls his pants on, not bothering to tie the laces. When Jaskier moves to follow him, Geralt puts a hand to his chest, pressing him back down against the mattress. He pauses, taking in the feel of Jaskier’s furred chest beneath his palm, the strong beat of his heart, the sight of his wide, pretty blue eyes—

“Open this door, by order of Prince Reginald,” a booming voice declares from outside their room.

Geralt grumbles and hurries to the door, jerking it open to find an opulently dressed guard, hand poised to knock again.

“What,” he snaps, pleased when the guard takes a hasty step back.

“This is the boarding room of Geralt of Rivia and Jaskier the Bard,” the guard asks.

“Yes.”

“The Prince—“ the guard starts, nervous eyes carefully avoiding looking at Geralt’s exposed chest and it’s intricate map of raised scars.

“— is requesting the bard’s presence.”

Geralt blinks rapidly, then turns to find Jaskier’s shocked gaze looking up at him from the bed.


	4. rosemary and orange

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt notices something disturbing and the prince has an unexpected invitation.

“Oh,” Jaskier says, stumbling out of bed, “I’ll be right there.”

The guard’s beady eyes glance into the depths of their room and Geralt pulls the door shut slightly, blocking the guard’s gaze with his own bulk.

“I’m to escort the bard to the Prince,” the guard says, eyes focusing somewhere in the middle distance, avoiding Geralt’s amber gaze. Jaskier swears behind him, fumbling to pull on clothes.

Geralt watches the guard squirm under his gaze, wondering what about the guard has his hackles raised.

Jaskier’s hand touches his lower back, pulling him out of his contemplation. Geralt has to blink rapidly, heat pooling in his belly when he sees how Jaskier has dressed himself in the dark. His own black shirt peaks out from beneath Jaskier’s gem blue doublet, hastily buttoned and rumpled where it’s tucking into his matching trousers.

“If you’re quite ready,” the guard interrupts Geralt’s appraisal of his bard. The man’s haughty voice grates on Geralt’s nerves and he laments how their evening has been ruined. He was looking forward to a potential round two, and now…

The guard spins on his too-shiny boots, shifting the air with his operatic whirl, and starts marching down the hall. Geralt’s hand snaps out and grips Jaskier’s elbow as the bard steps out into the hall.

It’s the smell that’s bothering him— a medicinal blend of rosemary and orange. The scent makes the hair along his arms stand on end. It’s not coming from Jaskier— it’s coming from the guard.

“What,” Jaskier murmurs, eyes quickly morphing to concern as he searches Geralt’s face for clues.

Geralt stares at the guard, taking in every detail: from the pasty skin, the stress sweat staining his uniform, to the decorative sword at his side. There’s no doubt, it’s the same soap: medicinal and floral.

The guard shifts under his gaze, feigning nonchalance.

“What is the hold up, pray tell?”

“Geralt,” Jaskier asks, glancing towards the guard, trying to see whatever Geralt sees. Instead of responding, Geralt squeezes Jaskier’s bicep to signal him to _stay_.

“I’m going with you,” Geralt says, leaving the door open and heading back into their room to put on a shirt.

“That is entirely out of the question, _you_ have not been summoned by the Prince—“

The guard blusters on as Geralt dresses quickly, slipping a dagger into his belt, hiding it under his clean shirt.

It’s possible that the assassins were trying to throw them off by using the same scent as the palace guard. It’s also possible that the assassins were part of the palace guard. Either way, Geralt is not leaving Jaskier alone with anyone smelling of rosemary and orange.

“I say, witcher, you are not invited—“ the guard huffs, eyes darting frantically between them as Geralt appears behind Jaskier in the hallway, crossing his arms stubbornly.

“I’ll wait outside,” Geralt says, “there’s nothing stopping me from waiting in the hallway while Jaskier has his meeting.”

Jaskier watches him closely, eyes sharp in the low light. Geralt can tell he wants to ask, but he just frowns and sticks close to Geralt as they make their way towards the palace.

\---

Predictably, Geralt is stopped in the hallway outside the Prince’s meeting room. Jaskier casts him a knowing look, smoothing his doublet one more time before disappearing into the meeting room.

Jaskier knows Geralt is fine with being left in the hallway. It makes no difference to his witcher senses— he can hear the conversation within the chamber easily, despite the heavy wooden doors separating them.

Jaskier greets the Prince appropriately, no doubt bowing with the practiced ease that Geralt could never master.

“You are the bard Jaskier?”

Jaskier answers in the affirmative.

“Good. I am going to host a party tomorrow evening. People are depressed, you know? All this monster business— it’s bad for one’s disposition! A large, opulent party will lift their spirits…and mine as well.”

There’s the sound of a metallic object clinking against wood. A drink against a table.

“Now, one of my guards says you are a decently well known bard. At the very least, you won’t offend any guest. If that correct?”

“I will do my best, your highness.”

“Hmm. You went to Oxenfurt, correct?”

“Yes, your highness.”

“A decent university. Well then, you'll arrive here tomorrow evening before the sun sets. We’ll provide a suitable outfit. Oh, there's nothing wrong with your clothes— though you could do with a bit more embellishment— it’s just that I have specific taste…”

Geralt clenches his jaw at the arrogant leer in the Prince’s syrupy voice.

“Yes, your highness.”

“Good. I do hope Raymond has made a good recommendation—"

Geralt chokes down the growl that aches to burst forth.

"—he did say you are talented in _many_ ways.”

There’s a long silence, broken by the Prince’s guffawing laugh. Geralt’s teeth grind together.

“Oh, not to worry, little bard. I’ll protect you from the wolves. Now go get some sleep and prepare, I expect a magnificent performance from you tomorrow evening.”

\---

“This is not ideal,” Jaskier bemoans, tugging his boots off and dropping them by the door.

“No it isn’t,” Geralt agrees, dropping to a seat on the mattress and unlacing his own boots. The walk back to their room at The Chanting Siren was hurried and silent, though the painful stench of anxiety hanging around Jaskier has lessened significantly since they entered the inn.

“Normally this would be a fantastic opportunity! Playing for high society in Gots Velen! But something about the whole situation makes me feel..." Jaskier trails off, gaze dropping to the floor in confusion. He shakes it off and turns to Geralt.

"What made you follow me,” Jaskier starts unbuttoning his doublet, fingers fumbling. Geralt’s eyes dart down, watching his own black shirt appear as Jaskier’s fingers slide the buttons apart.

“The guard uses the same soap as the assassins.”

Jaskier flinches in surprise, mouth dropping open.

“What?”

“Hmm,” Geralt agrees, flinging his shirt aside and moving to lay back on the mattress next to Jaskier. Jaskier carefully folds his doublet and, leaving Geralt's shirt on, walks to the bed and flops down.

“So…someone who uses the same soap tried to kill you?”

“Us,” Geralt corrects, watching Jaskier stare up into the dark.

“And it could be a misdirection,” Jaskier echoes his earlier suspicions. “Maybe the assassins wanted us to think they were part of the prince’s guard.”

“Either way, I won’t let you go to that party alone,” Geralt grumbles, laying down and throwing an arm across Jaskier’s belly. He lets his fingers crawl up under the black shirt, pressing into the thick fur across Jaskier's vulnerable stomach. Any other time, seeing his shirt on Jaskier would light a heavy fire in him and he would be aching to press Jaskier into the bed and claim him. Now though, it just makes him want to curl around the bard and _keep him safe._

Jaskier snorts a laugh.

“What,” Geralt mumbles.

“It’s just, normally I have to drag you to these types of things. You never insist on going,” Jaskier pouts, stretching under Geralt's hand, pressing up into the touch.

“Normally there aren’t assassins to worry about.” _And suspicious ex-lovers. And the Prince's lewd insinuations..._

“Hm, good point,” Jaskier yawns, “but we also don’t know when the berserker will strike next. The search can’t be put off.”

Geralt sighs, wishing they were not in Gots Velen. It’s simpler in the wild— there are no princes demanding performances from his bard, no ex-lovers around the corners, no politics making everything sticky—

“I would be fine on my own, you know. I can defend myself,” Jaskier murmurs.

 _No._ Geralt won’t be dissuaded. Raymond had a reason for mentioning Jaskier's name to the prince, and Geralt is not going to let that human hurt his bard. Not again.

“I’ll use the party as an excuse to get another look at some of the upper class,” Geralt says, pressing his arm down against Jaskier like punctuation. This is not up for debate.

The bard sighs, rubbing a hand against his eyes, then giving Geralt a soft smile.

“They are a very suspicious bunch,” Jaskier says, curling against Geralt’s chest and closing his eyes. 

Geralt stays awake long into the morning hours, thinking.


	5. corsetry and animal fur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tease, an incompetent headmaster, an unexpected outfit, and a party.
> 
> Check the notes at the end of the chapter for some info about berserkers. :)

Jaskier shifts against him and Geralt snaps to consciousness, sitting up and looking around their small room. They’re alone, and Geralt takes a moment to observe his bedmate.

His dark lashes blink open lazily, limbs stretching luxuriously against the thin mattress. Humans wake slowly, unconcerned, as though from a deep peace that Geralt cannot imagine ever experiencing. Witchers have to be able to shift from sleeping to fighting within a moment’s notice, and so bolt from unconsciousness to an alert wakefulness in between the space of two heartbeats.

Jaskier had asked him, once, why he startles awake so quickly, but the look on his face must have deterred the bard from pursuing the topic because he hasn’t asked since.

Geralt normally enjoys watching Jaskier wake, but today the sight of those vibrant eyes fill him with anxiety.

Despite all his thinking last night he cannot thread all the clues together, and knowing that he’s sending Jaskier into a veritable lion’s den of entitled upper class Gots Velen citizens— including the prince and Jaskier’s ex-lover—without sufficient protection is triggering all of Geralt’s fight responses.

Jaskier’s soft, warm lips against his bare shoulder pull him back to the present.

“Morning,” Jaskier breathes, soft and lax against Geralt’s side. Geralt can’t resist reaching out and carding his fingers through Jaskier’s thick chest hair, pressing his palm against the bard’s ribcage to feel the strong thump of his heart.

“What’s the plan for today,” Jaskier asks, trailing his fingers along Geralt’s forearm.

“I have a hunch,” Geralt admits. “Though I don’t think you’ll like it.”

“Tell me,” Jaskier asks, pressing against Geralt’s palm.

“I think the berserker is someone at the university,” he says, watching Jaskier frown.

“How do we draw them out,” Jaskier asks, lacing a thigh between Geralt’s and pressing himself along the witcher. Geralt is momentarily distracted by the feeling of Jaskier’s soft dick against his thigh. Geralt swallows, sliding a hand along Jaskier’s hip, soaking in his warmth.

“You said berserkers look perfectly human unless they tranform,” Jaskier continues, pressing his fingers along Geralt’s side and rubbing his leg between Geralt’s, friction heating the skin of Geralt’s inner thighs.

Geralt’s dick twitches, starting to fill.

“They do,” Geralt says, forcing himself to concentrate.

“We can’t draw them out. But perhaps we can narrow the list. Maybe it’s someone who works part-time for the royal family— someone who uses their soap, has connections within the castle…”

“We can ask around,” Jaskier says, pressing a gentle kiss to Geralt’s neck.

Geralt hums, shifting to press into Jaskier—

The bard jumps up off the mattress, throwing Geralt a coy look and cocking his hip to the side. He’s half hard, dick plump and inviting, and Geralt is tempted to grab the bard and throw him back onto the mattress.

“We really should get a head start then…a lot of people to talk to.”

“Jaskier,” Geralt warns, petulant. Jaskier leans close, pressing a quick kiss to Geralt’s lips before leaning to whisper into his ear:

“Later, dear, I’ll put something else between your thighs.”

Geralt sucks in a sharp breath, heart jolting at the image, bringing up that weird, jumping feeling that’s been happening lately whenever Jaskier suggests mounting Geralt.

Jaskier presses another swift kiss to his jaw before walking to the bathing room with an extra sway in his hips.

“Tease,” Geralt growls, and Jaskier laughs.

\---

Their trip to the university proves frustrating: the headmaster reluctantly admits that many of their pupils work in the castle, and getting a full list would take at least a week.

“We don’t have the time for that,” Geralt says, watching the portly man squirm under his gaze.

“I really cannot help you, I’m afraid—“ he mumbles, sweat breaking out across his balding brow.

“Have any of your pupils been to the Skellige Isles recently,” Geralt asks.*

“No! Everyone has been in class since the beginning of the year. A trip that far would be out of the question,” he says, swiping at the sweat with a well-used handkerchief.

Geralt hums, impatient.

“What about any pupils that may have harbored a grudge against your history professor,” Jaskier asks, throwing Geralt a warning glance.

“Professor Quincy? Well now, you don’t think a pupil killed him, do you,” the headmaster asked, beady eyes darting between them when they don’t respond.

“You _cannot_ be serious—“

“We’d like to help avenge the death of your colleague, sir, and any information you provide would be greatly appreciated,” Jaskier says, smooth as silk.

The headmaster stands, huffing and pacing behind his desk.

Geralt’s impatience rises, threatening to burst out, but Jaskier’s soft fingers press to his wrist and he sighs, frowning.

“I’m sorry, gentlemen,” the headmaster says, “I just can’t think of any student who would do this.”

And so the day is wasted on a dead end. Geralt’s shoulders haven’t been so tense in a long time, and now he has to go to a party and make nice with monsters of the human kind.

\---

_“What?”_

Jaskier’s outraged exclamation has Geralt striding across the room and peering around the room divider.

“Excuse me, sir—“ the assistant exclaims, reaching for the room divider to try and cover Jaskier from view.

“It’s alright, Andrew,” Jaskier says, anxious eyes darting up to Geralt, “he’s my guest for the evening.”

“What’s wrong,” Geralt asks, ignoring the assistant’s quiet huffs about impropriety.

“It’s nothing, really. I was just caught off guard,” Jaskier mumbles.

Geralt glances down to Jaskier’s hands, noting the familiar nervous tic as Jaskier rubs his fingers together.

“Jaskier.”

He’s about to demand an answer when his eyes catch on what made Jaskier yell out.

“What,” he asks, a perfect echo of Jaskier’s exclamation.

“Exactly,” Jaskier murmurs, turning back to the assistant.

“Are you _sure_ this is the attire the prince requires for the party?”

“Yes, sir. His Highness picked it out himself.”

“Where’s the rest of it,” Geralt demands, not caring that the assistant steps away from him and glances around the dressing room as though looking for protection.

“Yes, I am inclined to ask the same question as my companion,” Jaskier says, looking to Andrew for an explanation.

“You’re not going,” Geralt says, and immediately wants to smack himself in the face. Jaskier’s glare says enough, and Geralt rubs the back of his neck.

“I didn’t mean that,” he says.

“Yes you did,” Jaskier contradicts and Geralt sighs.

“Yes, I did. But…just…”

“I’ll be fine, Geralt. Also, I don’t really have a choice,” he admits.

“Want me to help…” he asks, suddenly flooded with a swelling wave of inelegance.

“Andrew can help me,” Jaskier says, and Geralt takes the out, retreating back to his stool by the overly ornate bathtub.

Geralt can freely admit to himself that he is enraged. And when Jaskier walks out from behind the room divider, that rage threatens to overwhelm him.

The outfit the prince chose is obscene— more fit for an upscale brothel than a prince’s party. The shiny heeled boots, the navy pants that leave nothing to the imagination, and—

Geralt clenches his jaw.

The bright blue corset wrapped over a frilly white undershirt. Gods. And no doublet. It’s completely inappropriate. The corset squeezes his waist, stopping just under his pectorals, leaving the billowing white ruffles of his undershirt to spill out from his chest in a highly suggestive manner.

 _He’ll be walking around the upper class in underthings,_ Geralt thinks, gritting his teeth. _Very nice underthings, but underthings nonetheless._

“Can you breathe?”

“Don’t be ridiculous Geralt, of course I can,” Jaskier blusters, turning away from Geralt and walking up to the gilt floor length mirror by the door.

“Corsets are perfectly comfortable, functional pieces of clothing. As long as they fit properly,” Jaskier says, anxious eyes skittering over his appearance.

“And does it fit properly,” Geralt asks, staring at the sharp dip of Jaksier’s waist.

“Mostly,” Jaskier admits, pretending to fuss with the ruffled collar of his undershirt in the mirror. His eyes dart to Geralt’s for only a moment, then away.

Geralt’s teeth are going to crack. Jaskier likes attention, but it’s a specific kind of attention that he thrives on. Flirtations are his specialty— he can charm anyone easily and he loves making people feel special. Lewd attention, however, makes him uncomfortable. He blushes and stutters and shrinks under that kind of attention, and this outfit is designed to draw lewd behavior.

 _Raymond had something to do with this,_ Geralt thinks, then chastises himself for being paranoid.

“It’s only for one night,” Jaskier says, smiling uncomfortably at Geralt in the mirror.

Geralt hums.

\---

Geralt hates this. He tries not to hover near Jaskier too much. The prince would not be pleased with the bard’s performance if Geralt scares everyone away from him the whole evening.

The hall is full— crammed with people in sparkling clothes and too much perfume— all vying for a better place in the social hierarchy of Gots Velen. The prince lords over them all, lounging at the front of the room with people fawning over him. Geralt scans the guards flanking the prince’s side, snagging on Raymond. The guard’s sharp eyes pick people out of the crowd with a calculating iciness, observing them as though there were particularly interesting specimens. Or perhaps as though they were potential meals.

Geralt reaches up to tug at the collar of his doublet. The tight, stiff fabric of his outfit isn’t helping the situation. His movement is restricted, and he hates not having a weapon on his person. To try and quell his anxiety (and to avoid hovering over Jaskier) he finds a space against a wall as far away from people as possible and stays there, watching Jaskier from across the room.

The bard sings beautifully, as always, and as Geralt suspected he is drawing a significant amount of salacious attention with his…attire. He deflects most of it with apparent ease, though Geralt _knows_ him and can see the strain in his smile and the discomfort in his eyes.

For a moment, Geralt thinks that perhaps they should just leave this shit town to deal with their berserker problem.

“Quite a successful party, if I may say so,” a dark voice cuts into Geralt’s moody thoughts. He glances to his right to find Raymond watching him, arms crossed over his broad chest.

“Hmm,” Geralt mumbles, unwilling to get into a discussion with the guard.

“I hear you’re struggling with that ‘monster problem,’ as you so eloquently put it the other day.”

Geralt shoots a look at the guard. Why does he sound so happy about it?

A young woman carrying a tray of grapes walks by, flinching to avoid the limbs of a wildly gesticulating drunkard and falling into Raymond’s side.

“Watch yourself, girl,” Raymond snaps, sharp eyes watching her scurry away, platter clutched in her thin fingers. Geralt’s shoulders tense.

Raymond’s voice was…off. Too deep and thick with saliva.

Geralt expands his senses, taking in a slow, deep breath. Soap and animal.

 _Fuck._ Geralt turns to look at the guard, forcing his muscles to relax.

“You been to Skellige recently,” Geralt ask, sotto voce.

Raymond’s eyes meet his, and now Geralt can see him. Beneath the slick, sharp exterior, a wild rage simmers.

Raymond sees the recognition in Geralt’s eyes and the wheels turn, shifting into a lazy, sharp-toothed smirk.

“It is beautiful this time of year,” Raymond admits. Geralt clenches his jaw, eyes searching for Jaskier’s form.

“Well, what are we to do now, witcher,” Raymond’s silky voice asks, leaning back against the wall and looking out over the unsuspecting guests.

Geralt looks too— taking note of all the soft, vulnerable human bodies, full of wine and food, unaware of the beast in their midst.

“You can’t touch me,” Raymond brags, “I’m a trusted member of the prince’s guard. And you have no proof of anything.”

Rage coils up in Geralt’s spine, fingers itching for the swords back in his room.

“You’re unarmed,” Raymond notes, as though reading Geralt’s thoughts, “and if you attack me here, _you’ll_ be the monster.”

Geralt chooses silence, watching Jaskier block a man’s wandering touch with his lute, holding the instrument between them like a wall.

“Ah, yes. He is quite popular tonight, isn’t he?”

“It was your intention to make him uncomfortable with that outfit,” Geralt snaps.

“There’s going to be dancing later,” Raymond says, ignoring Geralt’s outburst.

“Don’t worry, though. I’ll be his partner. I’ll protect him from the ravenous masses,” Raymond promises, shooting a leer at Geralt before heading back towards the prince’s table.

Geralt snags a tankard of ale from a passing waiter, trying to quell the rage in his chest.

_Fuck. He should have known—_

“—And we have a monster slayer in out midst this evening,” the prince’s voice rings out over the crowd.

Geralt strangles the handle of his mug, fixing a painful smile on his face as many pairs of curious eyes turn to gawk at him.

“Geralt of Rivia, the witcher. As you are all aware, _I_ contracted him to kill the monster haunting our fine town. And while he hasn’t caught the main culprit yet—“

Geralt grits his teeth behind his smile.

“He’s already butchered some other beastly thing— Witcher, come, tell us about the monster on our doorstep that you slayed.”

The prying eyes turn eager and hungry, people settling in for a story.

Geralt sighs.

\---

The prince quickly loses interest in Geralt after he gives a very dry rendition of how he killed the grave hag on the outskirts of their town. Several people come up to him after, wanting to poke and prod, and he gives short, dry answers until everyone is dissuaded and leaves him alone.

He scans the crowd once. Again.

He can’t find Jaskier. Geralt frantically scans the crowd a third time, a pit of unease swelling in his stomach.

Raymond is nowhere to be seen either.

Geralt growls to himself, then focuses his senses, wrinkling his nose at all the overpowering smells crammed into the hall—perfumes and fruits and cooked meats, human skin and fabrics and unwashed hair, sweat and sickness and lust and jealousy. Walking slowly, he catches a whiff of Jaskier’s scent by chance and follows it, weaving between people, ignoring their huffy exclamations.

His scent disappears behind a small nondescript wood door off the side of the hall, removed from the partygoer’s eyes. He reaches for the handle and freezes.

Raymond’s scent is there too— the overpowering rosemary orange smell mixed with animal fur, stronger now than it was earlier—

Geralt slips through the door unnoticed. A narrow stone hallway leading down beneath the castle, lit with sparse torches along the walls. There are no guards to stop Geralt as he jogs along the hall, and the hair rises along his arms.

It’s not long before the hallway abruptly splits into a fork— three separate paths to choose from. He pauses and breathes, tracking Jaskier down the left pathway.

His heart begins to fill with adrenaline—

The pathway ends rather abruptly in a large storage room, filled with containers and barrels from floor to ceiling—

“Those weren’t assassins,” Raymond’s voice growls, echoing in the cavernous space.

“They were supposed to bring you to me.”

Geralt crouches back into the hallway, peering around the wall into the room. Raymond paces across the floor, dragging a hand through his hair with frustration. Geralt’s eyes drop to Jaskier, lying against the ground as though he had been thrown there. His fingers twitch, reaching for the swords that aren’t there, and he bites his cheek hard, tasting blood. Jaskier doesn’t look hurt, just ruffled. There’s time.

“They were just too incompetent,” Raymond continues, “and didn’t realize you had let that monster into your bed like some common whore!”

Jaskier drags himself back along the cobblestone floor, skin pale as wax, staring up at Raymond as though he had never seen him before.

“You are the perfect mate for me. And with my transformation…we will rule over our own land, just the two of us.”

“You…you can’t be serious, Raymond,” Jaskier protests, voice trembling. Geralt remembers the souring, worsening smell of bear coming from Raymond and balks. He must be going into rut, which means enhanced strength, increased violent outbursts, and a single-minded search for a mate—

Damn it.

Geralt frantically looks around the room, searching for anything he can use as a weapon. If Raymond transforms, there will be nothing Geralt can do—

“We were meant to be,” Raymond continues, dropping to a knee beside Jaskier. Geralt can see the tremor in Jaskier’s fingers are Raymond takes his hand in his, pressing a kiss to Jaskier’s palm. Jaskier makes a quiet sound, scared, and Geralt’s vision mists with red—

“I thought you would get over this wild desire to travel the world and come back to me, but you never did. And now I find out you’ve taken up with a witcher of all people.”

Jaskier opens his mouth to say something and Raymond reaches down, running a hand along the dip of Jaskier’s waist, fingers sliding along the corset boning.

“I’ll fix this, pet. I’ll make it up to you.”

“Raymond, what happened to you,” Jaskier asks.

“I’ve improved, my love. A brief trip to the Skellige isles and I’m stronger than ever. I’ll be the perfect mate, you’ll see.”

Raymond stands, pacing along the stone floor.

“I just need to figure out a way to get us out of here so we won’t be followed.”

Jaskier reaches for his ankle, fingers pressing against the fabric.

“I think you twisted my ankle,” the bard says, voice quiet in the echoing chamber. His voice sounds wrong. It’s clearly a lie to Geralt’s ears, but Raymond’s brow wrinkles in contrition. Jaskier’s hand rests on his ankle, not moving.

Geralt’s heart leaps, remembering:

Jaskier keeps a small steel dagger strapped to his ankle.

“I’m sorry. I will make it up to you. I just….I had to explain. You need to understand why I’m doing this. Why the witcher has to die.”

“No,” Jaskier blurts, eyes going wide, lips drawn and pale.

“No, please, Raymond—“

“He has bewitched you somehow, I know this.”

Raymond kneels beside Jaskier again, cupping a pale cheek in his palm.

“You will see how much better everything is once he is gone and we are mated.”

“Raymond, please—“ Jaskier begs, voice trembling horribly.

Raymond’s hand shifts, gripping the nape of Jaskier’s neck hard enough to cut off Jaskier’s pleas.

“I’ll take care of everything,” Raymond says, leaning down to press their lips together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *   
> "(...) on the Skellige Isles, a group of Svalblod worshipers called Vildkaarls invented another, "controllable" way of becoming a berserker. After a complicated ritual involving psilocybe mushrooms and what seemed to be allowing wild bears to eat the cultists alive, the fierce warriors used to rise and spill blood in the name of their god."  
> -https://witcher.fandom.com/wiki/Werebear


	6. Cursed oil and Cat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is a smart cookie and Geralt doesn't have any patience.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Info I got from Witcher Wiki:  
> -Description of how berserkers are made  
> -Thunderbolt: +30 attack power  
> -Cat: Allows for better night vision
> 
> I took a lot of liberty with the berserker stuff. The rut thing is completely made up, don't @ me, friends. XD

Geralt tastes blood, teeth tearing into his cheek as he watches Raymond kiss Jaskier. The bard is frozen, and Geralt can hear his heart rabbiting from across the room. Raymonds hands grip Jaskier’s waist, possessive and domineering—

Geralt’s pupils expand, taking in light, preparing to attack—

Jaskier turns his face away, trying to slide away from Raymond on the ground, but the berserker just tightens his grip on Jaskier’s waist and shifts his attention, pressing biting kisses to Jaskier’s neck. Jaskier’s breath hitches and his eyes frantically scan the room for anything that will help—

The bard’s fingers tug at his pant leg, grappling for the small knife at his ankle—

 _No!_ Geralt thinks, mind frantically thinking through his options _. Jaskier’s dagger is steel— the berserker would barely feel it—_

He has to get Jaskier’s attention somehow—

He steps out from behind the wall and Jaskier’s eyes snap to him. Geralt shakes his head, holding a hand out to stop him from using his dagger. Jasker hisses out a breath at a particularly harsh bite and Geralt grimaces, taking another step into the room. Jaskier’s breathing is shallow and shaky, terrified, uncomfortable, and he needs to get Jaskier away from the monster _now_ —

Jaskier’s doing something odd. He keeps glancing from Geralt to the torch high up on the wall over Geralt’s shoulder, then down to the barrel at the witcher’s feet. He squirms in Raymond’s arms, hands fisted in the bersker’s doublet to try and keep space between them.

Geralt’s having a hard time thinking beyond the sight of this monster pinning Jaskier to the cold ground, biting him, _kissing_ him, taking what is not freely given—

Jaskier looks to the torch, then the barrel, then Geralt. His eyes are pleading, flinching away from Raymond’s teeth—

_Oh._

He gives Jaskier one last look, trying to make sure they’re on the same page, and Jaskier gives an almost imperceptible nod.

Geralt reaches up and unhooks the torch from the wall, placing it on the barrel and watching the flames start to lick at the wood, catching fire. He casts Igni to light small fires along three more barrels to help the fire spread and glances back to Jaskier.

 _Go_ , Jaskier mouths soundlessly.

 _No._ Geralt clenches his hands into fists, feeling the leather creak.

Jaskier glares at him, starting to shove at the berserker.

“Raymond,” Jaskier mumbles, voice strangled.

Raymond makes a noncommittal sound, licking a long, slow stripe up the pale column of Jaskier’s throat. Geralt’s heart _burns_ at the sight.

“Fire,” Jaskier says, struggling to find his voice.

Raymond slides a hand up to Jaskier’s shoulder and pushes the fabric of his chemise aside—

“Fire!” Jaskier yelps, and Raymond finally pulls back.

Geralt turns and bolts.

\---

His heart rate elevates as he sprints up the hallway, a plan spinning together in his mind.

“There’s a fire in the storage cellar,” Geralt barks at the first guard he sees, not slowing down until he reaches the door to the main hallway. He pauses, smoothing the fabric of his doublet down before slipping back into the hall. The party is still boisterous and loud, unaware of the danger brewing beneath them.

He waits, adrenaline shuddering through his limbs. It’s not long before several guards hurry past him and into the secret corridor.

He waits.

Jaskier’s heartbeat approaches and Geralt hides behind a column, watching Raymond help Jaskier limp to one of the room’s long tables.

Warmth fills Geralt— Jaskier was trying to buy him time by slowing them down.

When Jaskier sits the berserker kneels down and presses a hand to Jaskier’s ankle. The bard lets out a convincing yelp of pain, tugging his ankle away. Several party attendees glance over towards them and only look away when Raymond smiles at them and assures them that everything is fine.

The site makes Geralt’s teeth grind.

“I’ll stay here with a guard,” Jaskier promises, rubbing along his calf, anxious fingers dancing along his ankle. Raymond stares at him for a long moment —a cold sharpness creeping into his gaze— then he snags a guard running towards the cellar door.

“You. Stay here. He’s not to go anywhere, you hear?”

“Yes, s-sir,” the guard stutters, sweat breaking out along his brow. Raymond nods, gripping hard at the back of Jaskier’s neck.

“Wait here for me,” the beserker demands. Jaskier nods rapidly, squirming under the harsh grip at his neck. The berserker turns and strides back towards the cellar door, snarling at some more guards to follow him.

As soon as he disappears Geralt slips through the crowd, silent, approaching the table as quickly as possible.

Jaskier stands as soon as he sees him, placing equal weight on both feet, ankle injury miraculously healed.

“Hey, what do you think you’re—“ the guard blusters, standing and reaching out to snag Jaskier’s shoulder.

Geralt moves quickly, casting Axii.

“Calm down. You’re job is to sit here and enjoy the wine provided by the Prince.”

The guard’s eyes slip into compliance, glazing over as he smiles dopily. He drops to a seat at the table and reaches clumsily for a bottle of open wine.

Jaskier’s terrified eyes meet his. Geralt aches to hold him— to press his fingers to the bruise rising along Jaskier’s neck and smudge the mark out— but there’s no time.

“Ankle,” he asks, and Jaskier smiles tremulously.

“Fine,” he says. His lips are swollen red with the monster’s kisses. Geralt swallows hard.

He nods and without a word they start walking through the crowd, trying desperately to pass by unnoticed. It’s impossible, of course— a witcher with white hair, too pale skin, and yellow eyes, and a bard dressed like a high-class sex worker.

“What’s the plan?” Jaskier asks, voice shaking.

“Need my silver sword. And Cursed oil. We have to get back to the tavern—”

Their walk becomes more of a jog as they reach the castle’s outer courtyard, and Geralt slips into the stables and grabs a horse—larger enough for two—

He slips a bit into the horse’s mouth and swings himself up onto the animal’s bare back.

“Quick,” Geralt says, reaching a hand down to pull Jaskier up behind him.

“Gods this is so embarrassing” Jaskier mumbles, settling behind Geralt, his thighs bracketing Geralt’s hips. “Riding through town in a _corset_ —“

“Hold on,” Geralt says, feeling Jaskier’s hands fist in his doublet as he urges the horse into a canter out of the stables.

“Hey!“ A spindly guard yells, running after them as they bolt through the castle’s courtyard.

The moon hangs heavy in the sky, illuminating the streets with cold light as they hurry through the winding city. The few people out on the streets at night dart out of their way, barking out curses and staring blatantly as they pass by.

Geralt slows the horse to a trot as soon as they’re far enough away from the castle to avoid being pursued.

The less attention they draw, the better.

They reach the tavern quickly, slipping the horse into the tavern’s stable and hurrying up to their room through the back entrance.

\---

Geralt lights the room’s candles with Igni and snags his bag. He pulls out a vial of Thunderbolt and Cat, searching—

“He’s always been a bit odd—just—possessive—“ Jaskier mutters, running his hands through his hair.

Geralt’s heart jolts. _Possessive._ Like Geralt.

“I don’t understand how be became this person—“

“He’s not the man you knew,” Geralt says, blunt.

Geralt can see the war in Jaskier’s gaze. Jaskier doesn’t love this man— he doesn’t particularly like him— but he still sees _Raymond_ , not the berserker.

“Jaskier.”

Geralt pauses, opting for honesty.

“Raymond is dead.”

Jaskier blinks at him.

“I mean, he’s clearly alive, judging by the bruises I feel on my neck—“ Jaskier mumbles, grimacing as his fingers dance along the rising contusions.

Geralt cuts his hand through the air, angry.

“Let me tell you how controllable berserkers are made,” he says, finally finding the vial of Cursed oil and uncorking it.

“There’s a cult on the Skellige Isles—the Vildkaarls. The transformation involves a very elaborate ritual. They purposefully ingest Psilocybe mushrooms, and allow wild bears to eat them alive.”

He pauses to looks at the bard, watching understanding slowly fill his gaze.

“They rise from the dead as monsters— able to change from a human appearance to a giant bear at will—”

Jaskier drops to the bed, eyes going vacant.

“They normally don’t leave the Skellige Isles. They’re compelled to kill in the name of their god. It’s very…odd, that this berserker has come back here.”

Jaskier hides his face in his hands, breathing shallow and shivery.

Geralt quickly wipes his blade down with the Cursed oil, wrinkling his nose at the acrid scent and making sure to thoroughly coat the silver.

“Okay,” Jaskier says, standing and bracing his hands on his hips. He blinks, swallowing hard and putting on a brave face.

“How do I help?” he asks.

It’s Geralt’s turn to stare at him.

“That’s not—“

“He has to transform before you can kill him, right?” Jaskier asks.

Geralt frowns. Not necessarily—

“If you kill him when he looks human, people won’t believe that he’s the berserker. They’ll think you just killed one of Prince Reginald’s favored guards.”

Jaskier’s right. _Fuck._

“So…how do we get him to transform?” Jaskier asks, and Geralt feels a rush of affection for the bard— brave despite the immense danger.

“Sometimes,” Geralt starts, not liking where this is going. “Sometimes excessive rage can force them into transformation.”

“Okay, so we make him angry,” Jaskier says, as though it’s simple.

“He’s in rut.”

Jaskier stares at him, blank.

“Excuse me?”

“Berserkers go into rut once a year. If they have a mate, it’s fine, but if they don’t…”

“Geralt,” Jaskier says, hiding his face in his hands. “I know you’re not suggesting that Raymond— the berserker— has decided I should be his mate.”

“It seems pretty clear from his little speech in Prince Reginald’s cellar that that’s exactly what he’s decided.”

Jaskier collapses back to the mattress, skin wax pale.

Geralt stops rubbing oil into his sword and walk to the bed, kneeling by Jaskier. He reaches out carefully and places his hands on Jaskier’s knees. The material beneath his palms is soft, luxurious, and an overwhelming desire to _protect_ lodges in his chest.

“Jaskier… I won’t let him touch you again,” Geralt promises, waiting for Jaskier’s blue eyes to meet his.

Jaskier’s gaze fills with something unnamable, and he opens his mouth to say something—

“We have to be quick,” Geralt says, standing and closing his bag. He tugs on his normal clothes, grateful to have his full range of movement back.

“He’ll already be angry when he realizes you’ve left. If I can draw him out of the city—“

Geralt slips his armor on, strapping his swords to his back.

“I’m going with you,” Jaskier says.

“No,” Geralt snaps. “It’s too dangerous.”

“I’m not going to sit here and _wait_ —“

Geralt uncorks the vial of Cat and chugs it without a second thought. It’s bitter, licorice-y, and he tucks the vial of Thunderbolt into his belt.

He can feel the potion flooding his veins—pupils expanding, taking over the whites of his eyes as his vision improves.

“Wait here,” Geralt demands, glaring at Jaskier as he steps out into the hallway.

“Ooh, big scary witcher—“ Jaskier snaps, following on his heels, unbothered by Geralt’s visage. They hurry down the back steps towards the stables.

If Geralt can grab Roach, they can lure the berserker away from humans—

“You can’t just order me around, Geralt! I won’t just sit like a dog and—“

Jaskier’s words die and the hair on the back of Geralt’s neck prickles.

“Well, what have we here?”

Raymond stands at the stable doorway, inhuman smile curling at his lips.


	7. Thunderbolt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt finally takes on Raymond and Jaskier does something unexpected.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can you spot the game!Geralt line? ;)

_Fuck._

“Jaskier. Go back inside,” Geralt says, using the voice he reserves for when he needs Jaskier to do what he says without question.

Luckily Jaskier reads him loud and clear, stepping backwards towards the door. It’s only a couple feet behind them— Jaskier should be able to get through with a few quick steps—

Raymond’s icy eyes immediately snap to the bard and Jaskier freezes like a deer.

“You jump at his command, my love,” Raymond observes, voice an oil slick in the still barn air.

“Why?”

The horses shiver and stamp at the ground in their stables— skin twitching and blowing air through their nostrils, their eyes rolling at the scent of monster and witcher. Geralt can see their anxious bodies easily with the Cat flowing through his veins, but Jaskier flinches and jumps at the dark shadows.

Raymond takes a step towards them and freezes, all predatory stillness. Geralt glances around, doing some quick mental calculations. There are 24 stalls in the barn— 12 on each side— and a narrow aisle between the two rows. It’s not nearly enough space for Geralt to wrangle a transformed berserker—

Geralt’s hands tighten on the hilt of his sword, gloves creaking.

“He is not your mate,” Raymond says, voice slow and dark. His eyes keep sliding between Jaskier and Geralt, full of a sickening fire. “Why would you obey him, but not me?”

Geralt hear’s Jaskier’s heart rate pick up, filling with adrenaline.

“Jaskier, go back inside. Now,” Geralt tries again, resisting the urge to turn and shove him—

“We talked about something very important, Geralt,” Jaskier reminds him, voice high and tight. “We can’t do anything like _this_ —“

Jaskier’s right: they need to get Raymond to transform. But how?

“Come to me, my love,” Raymond says, one hand slowly raising towards Jaskier. He must barely be visible to Jaskier— a silhouette illuminated only my moonlight streaming through slivered cracks in the barn walls.

Jaskier pauses and Geralt can almost hear him teetering on the edge of a decision.

_Whatever he’s thinking can’t be good—_

“Go inside—“ Geralt grits out between his teeth.

“No,” Jaskier says, stepping closer to Geralt.

_Gods damn it, bard—_

The fire in Raymond’s eyes simmers, hot coals searching for an incendiary.

“I’m not going with you, Raymond,” Jaskier says, voice sure and strong.

“I’m right where I want to be,” Jaskier declares one hand fumbling in the dark. His fingers smack into the back of Geralt’s breastplate and slide down to the hinger, fingers dipping beneath the armor to touch his shirt. Geralt’s stomach swoops at the gesture—

The glowing coals in Raymond’s eyes ignite, bursting into an inferno and the predatory stillness breaks. Raymond takes another step forward, lips pulling back into a snarl.

“I won’t go anywhere with you, Raymond. You’re a monster,” Jaskier continues, voice wavering on the last word. Geralt steps to the side, trying to block Jaskier from the berserker’s gaze. Jaskier’s hand burns hot through Geralt’s shirt, shaking with fear.

_Oh._

The cogs roll into place and Geralt figures out exactly what Jaskier is doing.

_Jaskier, don’t—_

The horses become frenzied, sweating and blowing air out their noses hard, trapped.

The horse next to Geralt paces frantically in his stall, tossing his head and smacking into the wooden gate holding him in. Jaskier flinches, fingers pinching the fabric beneath his hand.

Frantic calls echo outside:

“Fire! Fire in the castle!”

_They need to get out of this stable—_

“Jaskier,” Raymond implores.“Do not disobey me in this.”

The room fills with the dark, sour animal stench of rut and rage—

“I can forgive your insolence— you cannot help your natural urge to rebel. But you must understand; you are mine to care for—“

_Fuck it._

“He’s not yours,” Geralt cuts in, his own rage boiling over. Jaskier shudders out a shallow breath behind him, flinching as a horse kicks at its stall.

“Stay out of this, witcher,” Raymond growls, not taking his eyes off Jaskier.

“No,” Geralt snaps— a horrible, possessive rage flooding his chest. He gives in to instinct:

“Jaskier is _my_ mate,” Geralt growls, heart burning with a fierce fury. “You cannot have him.”

It works.

Raymond snaps his attention to Geralt and the monster bursts forth— jaw dropping open to reveal lengthening incisors, skin folding in on itself and expanding into thick, rough fur the color of blood stained earth—

His pristine guard’s uniform splits beneath swelling muscle like butter, dropping away as the monster is revealed— twice the size of a normal bear—

Spittle flies as he bellows out his rage, shaking the ground. The horses scream in agony, overwhelmed with terror—

The horse next to Geralt throws his bulk against the stall door, splintering the wood. One more kick and he’ll be free—

Geralt reaches behind him and shoves Jaskier towards the door, darting forward to distract the berserker. He tugs the Thunderbolt from his belt and downs it in one go, tossing the glass bottle aside. The potion sears through him as he closes the distance between them with several long strides—

The door slams behind Jaskier and Geralt manages a quick, sharp slash to the monster’s front leg. Hot blood scatters into the air, arcing from the deep wound. The injury sizzles and foams as the Cursed Oil from Geralt's sword penetrates deep in the monster's flesh—

The berserker howls at him, saliva dripping from his mouth as one huge paw swipes through the air, narrowly missing Geralt.

They’re too confined in here. Geralt can’t move enough, but there’s no way he’ll be able to get them outside—

The barn doors fly open— flooding the room with cool night air and bright moonlight.

Jaskier’s there, dragging the door open, blue eyes wild with fear.

_No._

The berserker’s gaze swings around and finds Jaskier, leaving the monster’s chest exposed to Geralt—

“Jaskier! Run!” Geralt bellows, darting forward and driving his sword into the beast’s chest.

The berserker screams, jerking away and turning towards the open door. He runs out, bulk smacking into the narrow doorframes and shaking the old wooden structure dangerously.

Geralt darts after him, missing a jab to the beast’s hind leg and cursing.

The berserker pauses just outside the barn, head swinging wildly, searching for Jaskier. People scatter in fear at the sight of the monster, bolting down alleyways and into homes— screaming with shock. The wound at the berserker’s chest gushes blood; deep but not fatal.

Geralt takes advantage of the beast’s distraction and darts around his side, driving the silver sword into his gut and dragging the blade down.

The beast yowls and swings around too fast for Geralt to dodge away. His sword is knocked out of his hand and his ears ring, spine jarring where he’s slammed to the ground.

He barely sees the starry sky above him before the monster is on him— one giant paw landing on his belly and pressing—

The air leaves his lungs and he groans.

He scrabbles for the dagger at his ankle, ribs creaking under the pressure— fire lighting up his chest—

The beast suddenly howls and leaps away, swinging around.

Air floods his lungs and he gasps.

_What the fuck?_

“Geralt!” Jaskier’s voice rings in the distance. Geralt rolls to his side—

_Fuck._

Jaskier is standing in the middle of the road, small dagger in his hand and bright red blood spattered down his front. Has he been hurt? No— he’s standing upright, and he stumbles away from the berserker, feet wobbling across the cobblestone street—

There’s a small tear down the beast’s hind leg from the bard’s dagger.

“Jaskier,” Geralt breathes, head pounding as he forces himself to his knees.

Jaskier glances around, dagger held uselessly in his hand as the berserker lumbers toward him, limping with blood loss and torn muscles—

Geralt stumbles to pick up his sword, slippery with berserker blood, and squares his shoulders.

“Raymond!” he bellows.

Jaskier holds the dagger up uselessly, hand shaking as the berserker closes the distance between them.

“Raymond!” Geralt yells again, vocal chords burning with strain.

The berserker pauses, swinging his giant head towards Geralt. He looks tired, panicked—

“He’s mine!” Geralt yells. “Jaskier’s mine!”

The sick fire reignites in the monster’s gaze and he turns back towards Geralt, gathering what remains of his strength.

“Come on, you piece of filth!” Geralt growls, drawing his sword up in front of him and bracing his feet wide, daring the berserker to charge him.

His taunting works for the second time that evening.

A ton of fur and muscle barrel down on him, red tinged foam flying from the beast’s dripping teeth—

The ground shakes and Geralt dodges, rolling out of the monster’s path at the last second and leaping up, bringing his sword up across the beast’s thick neck.

The fatal blow strikes true—

Thick red bursts from the gaping wound and the berserker bays, collapsing to his side. The monster gurgles, gasping and choking, chest heaving frantically.

Geralt waits, grip firm on his blood drenched sword, ready to strike again. The beast takes one last shuddering breath and stills, dead.

His sword clangs against the road and Geralt sags to his knees, bracing a hand on the cold street and feeling for broken ribs with the other.

Only one or two broken. Not too bad. 

“Geralt!”

Adrenaline surges and he whips around—

Jaskier lands hard on his knees next to Geralt, frantic hands flitting over his armor.

“Are you okay?”

Geralt hums, staring at the bard. His blue eyes are manic— too bright and twitchy—

His hands shake as he touches Geralt, blood making his fingers slip across the armor.

Geralt says his name and Jaskier doesn’t respond. He tilts his head and hones in on Jaskier’s heart, grimacing— it’s much too rapid for a human—

He snags Jaskier’s wandering hands in his, pressing the poet's palms against his breastplate.

“Jaskier.”

Blue eyes lock onto his. Jaskier’s pupils are pinpricks, swallowed up by too-bright blue.

He’s in shock.

“Jaskier, are you hurt?”

Geralt watches Jaskier swallow as he tries to process Geralt’s words.

“Are you injured?”

Jaskier tears his eyes away, looking down at himself.

“No, I’m f—“ the words tangle and disperse.

He makes a terrible strangled sound at the sight of all the blood soaking his clothes. The bright white chemise is soaked is red, sticking to Jaskier’s skin and tugging as it dries—

Jaskier takes one gasping breath, chest heaving— 

_No._

Geralt cups Jaskier’s jaw in his palms and kisses him, pressing their lips together so hard their teeth clack.

Jaskier makes another noise, wounded, resisting him, but Geralt just pulls him close. He knows he looks monstrous— ice pale skin covered in blood and black veins, eyes two black pits in his skull, but he needs to ground Jaskier _now_ and this is the only thing he can think of—

“Stay here with me,” Geralt demands, pressing his tongue to the seam of Jaskier’s lips. The bard’s chest convulses beneath his, but he lets Geralt in— lets Geralt bend Jaskier to his will— lets Geralt plunder his mouth and _claim_ him.

For long moments Jaskeir’s breath starts and falters, panicked, but Geralt holds him steady and breathes against him with slow, controlled lungfuls of air and soft, slow kisses.

Jaskier’s breathing slowly starts to mimic his and come back under control. 

He doesn’t want to pull away and see the fear in Jaskier’s eyes, so he presses a quick kiss to the bard’s jaw and murmurs into his ear:

“Are you okay?”

Jaskier shivers, hands dropping to clench in the hinge of his breastplate.

“Yeah,” Jaskier lies, hiding his face against Geralt’s neck.

“Are you okay?” Jaskier asks, voice muffled in Geralt’s hair.

“Yes,” he says, glancing down the empty road. The berserker carcass blocks the road— a dark mass oozing blood and viscera.

Yes, he’s okay now.

He thinks of Raymond taunting him only an hour ago in the castle’s celebration hall. He thinks of Raymond’s burning eyes following Jaskier around the room, and the way he kissed Jaskier in the cellar— biting him, marking him—

His arms tighten around Jaskier’s waist, the image replaying over and over behind his eyes. He stares at the carcass, reminding himself that Raymond is dead now, and Jaskier is _safe_.

He needs to get Jaskier out of the street and away from the berserker’s body. The sight of the dead monster could easily throw Jaskier back into shock and Geralt can hear doors creaking open as people’s curiosity starts getting the better of them. Jaskier shouldn’t see that.

“Come on,” Geralt mumbles, standing and pulling Jaskier to his feet, keeping him angled away from the dead monster.

“Let’s go get cleaned up. Then we can deal with the fallout.”

Jaskier nods, leaning into Geralt more than he normally would as they stumble back into their tavern.


End file.
